


Loss

by CelestePhantasm



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of loss, Post "Civil War", mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestePhantasm/pseuds/CelestePhantasm
Summary: Steve’s on the run. To lay low, he’s traveling, visiting the graves of people he knew.On a cold Winter day, he finds a young woman visiting the grave of the man he came to see—her grandfather. But she’s not really there for him.While he loses himself in memories of war, she allows her grief to manifest at the grave of another loved one. But when a storm sets in, he talks her back to her car, and she finally recognizes him, offering to let him stay with her, knowing he’s on the run.Cold days with a power outage and nothing but a fire leave a man a bit too much room to think.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _Captain America_ or any of its contents or characters. I don't own any of the writers, concepts, or _anything_ at all. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> I confess being rather...underwhelmed by "Civil War," probably mostly because of the plot (which I found a bit pointless and convoluted), and yet I adore Cap quite a lot, so even with my lack of enthusiasm about the movie, I still got the writing bug for one Steve Rogers.
> 
> That said, at the time of writing I was struggling with missing someone I've lost, so this story has a taste of self-insertion because I needed a good way to let my pain out and...well, writing has always done that for me. It has a lot of my thought process and the things that'd been rolling through my head at the time. I have, however, tried not to have it too specific to myself, so I hope you enjoy it despite my personal touch.
> 
> This is a bit of a study in the feeling of loss, not just for oneself, but it definitely takes a long look in to what Steve must be feeling after the events of "Civil War."
> 
> A sad story, in many ways, but it has a _hopeful_ ending, so I hope you guys enjoy it!

The pain of loss is unique. Small things are reminders—morning coffee, desserts, songs.

And though time heals the holes a loss rips open, scars remain.

“Oh,” a voice said, quiet, gentle, but surprised. “I'm sorry.”

The woman before him—the woman he'd addressed so softly—jumped and turned toward him. Her face was puzzled. “...You're...sorry?” The man who'd spoken was handsome—well-built, in a leather jacket, with a widow's peak of blond hair peeking from beneath a beanie, and gentle, blue eyes.

“I, um...I didn't think anyone would be out here today,” he said, his words a little embarrassed. “Bit cold for it.”

This time, she looked at him a little longer, noting the wryness of his smile and the light flush on his cheeks, though that might have been the cold. She was quiet for a moment. “You here to visit the old man?”

He watched her, too, before he spoke. He couldn't name the tone she'd just used. He spoke again, a little more carefully, now, and only briefly glanced at the headstone behind her. He took a breath before he began, starting with the name. “I knew him. Thought I'd pay my respects.”

This time, rather than looking him over, she turned and stared at the headstone. “Bit young to know him,” she said, slowly. “I was eight when he died, and you're my age.”

She didn't see his grimace. “I'm older than I look,” he started. “He was a good man.”

“He was an asshole. He verbally abused my grandmother and didn't give a shit about my mom,” she spat. “And PTSD or no, he doesn't get a pass.” She took a deep breath, and he saw it frost on the cold, snowy air. “You can love somebody without liking them.”

This time, he really did watch her. She was bundled in a thick coat with a warm hat over her ears, and her hands were shoved in her pockets. He couldn't tell if her shivers were from cold, or from her emotions. He waited. “You're his granddaughter?”

She scoffed. “Yeah.” This time, she tilted her head to the graying sky. “'Course, I'm not really here for him. Trying to get my courage up. Someone else I gotta see,” she said, quietly. “I'll leave you to it.”

Snow had already laid a thin blanket on the ground—so fine and sparse the grass poked through it—but the flakes were growing bigger. She turned to walk away, and he watched her.

She stopped somewhere down the row.

He curled his hands in to his jacket pockets, looking at the headstone. “Guess things change,” he muttered.

But he was there to think. Graveyards were silent.

He let his mind wander where his mouth had not admitted—back to war, where this man had been good.

It was her quiet gasps, cutting through the wind, that ripped him out of battle, out of blood and loss and fear.

He glanced at her, knowing how private grieving was, but he couldn't help it.

She hit the ground.

He couldn't just _leave_ her there.

He waded through the deepening snow, feeling the wind bite through his jeans and sting his cheeks. It was going to hit hard, and soon, and he approached her from the front, this time, making sure his boots would enter her eye line. She was gasping, rubbing her eyes, crying so hard it broke his heart. He knelt when he knew she was trying to compose herself. “Come on. Let's get you out of the cold. It's getting worse,” he said, softly, offering his hand.

His watch told him they'd been equally lost in thought for more than an hour.

She stared at him through her puffy eyes, seeing the gloves on his fingers, thinking back to the sound she'd heard shortly before he spoke—a motorcycle. She rubbed her face, sniffling and gasping. “Did...did you really bring a bike in this?”

“Only vehicle I've got,” he admitted. Still, he kept his hand out, “Come on, miss. Let me walk you to your car.”

When she finally nodded, he helped her to her feet, but he knew right away that she was going to freeze in her car—her pants were sodden with the snow and the tip of her nose was crimson. She was shivering by the time they took the first step, and he gently slipped his arm around her, settling his hand on her waist. He didn't want her uncomfortable, but she was much too cold already.

Her phone began to ring—a song he didn't recognize, but a definite song—and he saw the small drops of water her gloves left behind on the screen before she pulled them off. The tips of her fingers were red. She took several deep breaths, apologizing to him, telling him she _had_ to take the call, right then.

“Hi, baby,” she said, softly, and what surprised him most was the composure in her voice. “How are you?” Though she was walking—and with his support, considering the wind—he could not hear the other side of the conversation through the phone. There was quiet, for a time. “Is that so? Well, did Grandmama start a fire?” Another brief silence, and she hummed. “Yeah. Mommy will be home soon.” Another pause. The snow had already laid on her car smoothly, not yet thick, but it was gathering fast. “Did she? Well, will you make Mommy one, for when I get home?” She was shivering harder now, but she kept even that from her voice, “Thank you, baby. I love you.”

Her shaking hands finally pushed the phone back in to her pocket, and she turned to him. “Where's your bike?”

He gestured behind himself, and she leaned slightly, looking around him. “It's not a big one. I'll move my seats and drive you home,” she offered. “We can lift it in to the back together.”

He immediately shook his head, “No ma'am. No need,” he promised. “I'll get by on my own. You need to get home,” he said. “Sounds like you've got someone waiting on you.”

“My daughter,” she confessed. “But my mother is with her. She can wait a little while. You'll freeze in this weather,” she insisted.

He looked at her for a long moment, “You don't need to go to that trouble. I'll be fine.” The statement was very firm, and he meant it. “You need to get home.”

For a long moment, she watched him, and then her face changed. “I know you. You're...aren't you Steve Rogers?” She paused, looking at him in wonder, now. “You were...you were with my grandfather.”

She could physically watch the flush color his cheeks, and his posture changed, his body shifting in very obvious discomfort. “Yes, ma'am. He saved my life, though he denied it...” He paused, the color fading from his cheeks a small amount. “He, uh...he tripped, knocked me down with him. Grenade went off where I'd have been.”

A surprising, but pretty smile found her lips. “Oh, he didn't deny it, sir. Favorite war story, and he'd tell _anybody_. Though it was a bit more... _heroic_ , by his account. He quite insisted that he tackled you.”

This time, he finally chuckled. “I'd let him take the credit for it. Either way, that's...uh, that's why I'm here.”

She looked at him now, and she shook her head. “You're on the run, as I understand,” she said, softly. “From the...well, from the mess overseas,” she continued, sounding shy. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

This time, he really did look embarrassed, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. “I've got a good enough place. It'll keep me warm for the night,” he promised.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You can stay with us tonight. It's a bunch of girls, but we'll give you space.” She reached up and lightly tapped his chin, prompting him to look at her. “Let me. I might've thought he was an asshole, but he'd have given you the room, and so will I.”

She didn't give him room to argue this time—when he looked at her, she smiled, gently, and then pulled open the doors to her car. She folded seats down and slid them aside, until there was _just_ enough room for his bike, and she walked to it. “Come on, handsome. I don't figure I can lift it on my own, and I'm not letting you squat somewhere.”

Surprised by her assertiveness and not slightly shy, Steve reluctantly agreed. By the way she moved, he had the distinct feeling she'd follow him home in the snow and corner him about it.

But he didn't need her aid; he lifted the bike with little effort, rolled it in to the back of the vehicle, and he climbed in the passenger seat.

She put the heat on maximum all the way home.

“I'm afraid the power's out,” she said, after about ten minutes. “But we've got a fireplace. I'm sure by now my mother and daughter have made a camp site around it,” she admitted with a smile. “If you would prefer, I have a lot of blankets—you can take one of the beds and I'll make sure you're warm.”

Steve had first thought that he would slip away when he was certain they were asleep, but the snow was getting so thick that he'd be carrying his bike, and by the looks of things, it'd be too far even for him. She had slowed down by a lot, and had shifted to a lower gear. “I don't mind, ma'am. You didn't have to do this.”

She shook her head, but only barely—and he was glad for that, due to the weather. “You don't need to be out in this in a half-dilapadated shack, shivering under a moldy blanket,” she said. “It's the least I can do.”

“I can survive almo—WHOA!” Steve felt the brakes slip even as she slammed them on, but her reaction was fast—she ripped the emergency brake so hard he wouldn't have been shocked to see it tear off in her hand.

The front-right side of the bumper hit the tree, and Steve's side of the car nudged it as it finally came to a stop.

Her whole body was shaking so hard the wheel was trembling in her hands.

She said a string of words to make him blush.

When she caught her breath, she let go of the wheel, shaking, but she turned to him. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he assured her, quickly. “I'm fine. What about you? Are you okay?”

She took a deep breath. “Jostled, and shaken, but I'm okay,” she said. The car was still running. “God bless,” she said, putting her hand over her chest. “The car seems okay, but I'm gonna have a hell of an insurance call tomorrow...” She took a deep breath. “I need to see if I can drive around it. If I can't...God knows what we'll do,” she said.

Steve reached over and put his hand on her arm. She was shaking all over, still, and her eyes were dilated so wide he could barely see her irises. “Stay here. I'll take a look. You need a minute.”

She didn't quite get to protest; Steve wriggled his way back toward his bike, as his door was pressed to the tree. He barely fit, but managed to get out the back.

The tree wasn't huge—although, in the moment, he would've sworn it was a titan—and the car didn't look as bad as he expected. The front bumper was very bent, and he was sure the entire side of the car he'd been on would be damaged, but her reaction had been quick. They were alive, probably thanks to her wits. Between the motor and his bike, they'd both be dead.

He went back to her, knocking gently on the window, when he saw her sitting with her eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths. She barely rolled it down. “Your car's damaged, but I think it'll make it home,” he started, softly, “But you can't go around the tree. I'll see if I can move it.”

For a moment, she stared at him, and then shook her head. “No, it's okay, I know this place well—I can turn around, take another road.”

“How far?”

“Another thirty minutes, in this weather.”

“I'll move it,” he said, and didn't give her a chance to protest.

She jumped out of the car, leaving the door open, and left the engine running. She didn't trust turning it off.

Steve was already moving around the branches, looking for the sturdiest—and nearest to the trunk—that he could grab.

And before she could offer to help, he let out a heavy breath, gripped several of the limbs, and ripped them off, making his way toward the best he could see.

She watched, jaw slightly open, as the wood cracked beneath his hands, sounding even louder than the hum of the engine, and what baffled her even more...well, once he cleared his path, he lifted the tree and walked it away from the car, back off the road, its dirt-caked roots dragging against the ditch to the side of the path.

He dusted himself off, and then looked at his side of the car. He daren't open the door—the damage was enough to worry him. Steve, then, approached her, to see her eyes wide, and jaw slack. “I think you should let me drive,” he said, gently. “You're shaking.”

“You...just lifted a tree.”

“Only the top of it. I dragged it,” he said, denying the fact that, honestly, in better conditions, he might have been able to lift the thing. “Now. Will you let me drive?”

She nodded dumbly.

He urged her to climb across the seat, and then he closed the back again. She fastened in, and he followed suit a moment later, wondering if she was going to be okay. “Okay,” he started, softly, trying not to shock her. “Do you think you can give me directions?”

Once she nodded, he eased the emergency brake off, putting the car in its lowest gear, first. It wobbled—the axle was probably damaged, he realized—but it rolled forward, the engine sounding fine.

If it broke down, he'd just carry her home.

Though shaken, she stayed calm and directed him, and he drove as slowly as he could. The car wouldn't make it too far, he was certain, but the weather was bad enough to make him want to push it as far as he could.

He had to stop for a few more trees, and go around several branches, and by the time they got to her driveway, the car was groaning and the engine had, at last, begun to lightly smoke. He barely pulled in before he cut the car off.

Her home was blanketed in snow, and the lights had not come back on—the house inside was pitch black, other than a glow in the bottom windows. He climbed out of her car, and the snow was up to his ankles. “Do you think you can get out?”

She was shaking, perhaps even harder than before, but she nodded. She climbed across to the driver's side, and then managed to get her feet out of the car, but standing was definitely not an option—luckily, Steve was quick to react. He gently gathered her in to his arms, cradling her, though she protested, insisting that she only needed a moment.

He carried her to the door and put her on her feet carefully.

Though shaking, she managed to unlock the door, greeted by pitch black, other than the gentle glow from the fireplace downstairs. He helped walk her down.

She was greeted by a tiny body flying at her, and Steve had to press on her shoulder to keep her upright. “Mommy! I was worried!”

“It's okay, baby,” she said, stroking her daughter's hair. “I'm home now.”

“It took you so long! Grandmama was about to call the police!” Her little girl was holding on to her shoulders tightly, and now looked at her with wide eyes. “What happened?”

By now an older woman was standing in the doorway, in a warm housecoat. She leaned against the door frame. “(Name), what on earth took so long? Is it bad out there?”

She put her daughter down gently—still shaking—and nodded. “I don't expect to work tomorrow. The roads are almost impassable and there are several trees down,” she said. “It's falling pretty thick out there, and the wind is horrendous.”

“Okay. I'll get the extra firewood while you change. You look soaked,” the older woman said. “And it looks like you brought company.”

Steve offered his hand, “I'm sorry to barge in,” he said, automatically. “Your daughter is rather persistent,” he added, and smiled. “I'm Steve.”

This time, the older woman grinned. “Tell me somethin' I don't know! But I'm glad she brought you. Sounds like trouble out there.”

“It is. I'm going to get him some clothes,” (Name) interrupted. “Could you put on some water? I think the fire can make some hot chocolate. I really need it,” she admitted.

When her mother went upstairs, (Name) turned to Steve. “Would you like some? I'm sure you're cold, too.”

He shook his head, “You don't need to—”

“Nope. Stop there. I don't _need_ to do anything but sit and breathe, if I so choose to go out like that,” she said. “I want to. Tea? Hot chocolate? Cider? Something stronger?”

“I'll take hot chocolate,” he finally said, trying to suppress his smile. “And about the clothes...I thought you said it was just you girls,” he prodded, lightly.

He saw her reflexively tense up. “I...it is, but...uh, well...” She was at the edge of tears. Her mother passed through with a kettle, and she took a breath. “I have clothes. Just...it's a long story,” she said. “And I don't tell it in front of Belle.”

He seemed to understand, and followed her upstairs. She used her phone as a light, temporarily, and then lit a candle, carrying it with them to the end of a hallway. She let him inside what was clearly a bedroom, put the candle on the dresser, and opened some of the drawers. “My...uh, my boyfriend...he passed.” The words were shaky, but quiet. “Belle was one. She doesn't remember,” she continued, and he heard her sniffling. “Military man...guess the family's good for it, 'cuz Daddy was one, too, but uh...New York? With the...the Hulk and the aliens and...well, we're so close, he got in the car and took off,” she said, and her voice was cracked and thready. “Oh, he fought like hell, a'course. But one got him.” She took a deep, gasping breath. “His family gave me the ring at the funeral, and they let me take the flag,” she said. “I've got one of his uniforms in a bag in the back of my closet. His flag is on a shelf...and his ring stays on my right hand,” she said. “Can't quite get rid of all his clothes.” She gasped quietly, then sniffled. She closed the drawer. “'Course, the man couldn't pick up a tree...but these should fit,” she offered, sounding like she forced a little laugh, and turned to him, presenting him with a neatly-folded set of flannel pants and a t-shirt. “If the shirt's a bit small, I might be able to find a bigger one.”

He looked at her, feeling his frown deepen. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault,” she said, taking a little breath. “Despite what people might say. You did your best to fight 'em off.” She sighed, and then shook her head. She pulled open another drawer, pulling a pair of pajamas and a tank top from it. “Alright. I'm gonna change in the bathroom. Knock when you're done,” she offered.

She slipped away from him before he could say anything, and shut the door behind her. He kindly ignored the soft crying he could hear, looking at the pants and t-shirt in the faint candlelight. It was typically utilitarian—just a normal pair of sleeping pants and a gray shirt, but he had a feeling that she held on to it for pure sentimentality. Even with her mother, he could only imagine how hard it was to raise a daughter without a father—without even talking about him. He knew she didn't, due to all his things being put away somewhere.

Her daughter must have a little, casual story to relate to his absence, at least until she was older, and could understand.

He didn't want to put on a dead man's clothes when he knew the sentimentality behind their presence, but he knew, equally, that she would insist. He peeled off his clothes—the jeans were definitely wet, thanks to the snow—and managed to fit in to the borrowed clothes, though the shirt was a bit small. He gave her enough time to calm and change, and then knocked. She opened a second later, and he was already holding the candle. “They'll do,” he said.

She rubbed her eyes, but smiled at him. “Okay. Your call—camp with the girls at the fire, or snuggle with twenty blankets?”

He cracked a smile. “Downstairs. Less trouble for you.”

She sighed at the mention, but nodded, and turned to lead the way out of the room, back down the hall, and in to the warmth of the room that had, as she suspected, been turned in to a camp. There were pillows all over the floor, a deck of cards and a coloring book, some cookware and a definite pile of what looked to be almost-s'mores.

She led him through the maze of pillows and blankets, and Belle looked at her happily, “Mommy! Grandmama is making hot chocolate for all of us!” But then, her face changed. “Mommy, your arm is red! And you're shaking!”

“What?” (Name) looked at both her arms, and then noticed a definite red spot sprouting above her right elbow. She reached for it reflexively, and it was definitely sore. Her mind leaped back to nearly ripping the emergency brake out of its place. “Oh, it's okay, sweetheart. I'm fine,” she promised. “Just a bit cold.” She sat down by the fire, next to her little girl. “Honey, we have a guest. His name is Steve. Will you say hello?”

Belle looked up at the impressive figure that Steve Rogers made, blinking at him. “He's really tall!” She started grinning, though, and waved energetically, a crayon in her hand. “Hi Mr. Steve!”

He couldn't help but smile back at her. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, waving. “Your mom told me your name is Belle. Is it okay if I call you that?” When she hummed her assent, he thanked her, and he saw her grandmother waving him over. He took a seat on the couch at her insistence.

“The kettle should whistle shortly,” she offered, while (Name) sat beside Belle, taking up a crayon. “What's your preference?”

He shook his head, “Hot chocolate is good enough for me,” he assured her.

She hummed at him, and when the kettle began to shriek, she pulled forth four mugs, stirring in some of the marshmallows that had been meant for the s'mores, and offered the first to Belle—who, indeed, was astoundingly excited about the entire matter—and the second to Steve, the third for (Name), and the final one she kept for herself. The mugs were comfortingly warm, and he finally began to see (Name) calming down, though he was certain she was going to have a sizable bruise come morning.

Shortly after finishing about half her cup, Belle began to drift off, and (Name) lifted her daughter up and put her on the fluffiest of the pillows, covering her in a few blankets, and kissed her forehead. The last thing she did was put a small, black cat toy on the edge of her makeshift bed.

After that, she gave a heavy sigh. “I know you're going to ask, Mom, so give me a second—I need a little kick. Hell of a drive home,” she whispered.

She disappeared for a short few minutes, and came back with an ice pack wrapped in a thin towel, and the aforementioned “kick.” It appeared to be a very small amount of liquor—by the shade of it, Steve could only assume it was whiskey—and she took it in one swallow, gritting her teeth. “Alright. Let's have the questions.”

“He looks familiar,” the older woman started.

“You know him,” she assented. “Your dad swore he saved Steve's life.”

It didn't take long to process that comment. “...Steve...Rogers? Like, Captain America, Steve Rogers?”

He blushed again, and (Name) knew, then, that this man was intensely humble. “Yes, ma'am,” he confirmed.

“Goodness!”

“Yeah, I know,” (Name) soothed, trying to keep her mother a little quieter. “He...uh, he was there to visit the old man,” she said, quietly. “He's a gentleman. The snow was getting bad and he talked me back to the car,” she explained, keeping her voice low. “And...well, the reason it took so long...I...kind of hit a tree,” she admitted, sheepishly. “Part of the shakiness.”

It took a little while for the other woman to speak. “Do you need to go to the hospital? Either of you?”

“No,” Steve cut in, gently. “She's got incredible reflexes. She did a great job,” he said, softly. “Though I don't think I'd move the car, even when it's clear. You'll need a tow.”

(Name) sighed and rubbed her head. “The...uh, the bruise on my arm is from where I grabbed the brake,” she explained, when she saw her mother's eyes staring at the ice she had wrapped around her arm. “And Hercules, here, actually pulled the tree out of the road so we wouldn't have to go around.”

Steve flushed.

Her mother shook her head, “You're lucky you're not dead! I told you not to go today,” she scolded. “I always know when it'll be bad.”

(Name) looked at her lap. “I had to, Mom. I had to.” They both saw her shaking again. “I had a bad day,” she whispered. “I needed to see him.”

Her mother went quiet at that, and the three of them sat, sipping their hot chocolate. The cold was coming in worse, and Steve insisted on getting the firewood—it was in the garage, which was sure to be ice cold by then. (Name) walked with him to the door, and pointed toward the back, where there was a sufficient, if somewhat snowy, pile. He brought several logs in—some were yet too wet to use—and laid the extras near enough to dry, throwing a couple on the fire, carefully stoking it.

By the time they had come back, her mother was asleep on the couch, and (Name) draped a couple of blankets over her gently. Giving a little sigh, she took a seat near the fire, confessing her cold—though that was, admittedly, probably the ice pack.

Steve approached her, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “Thank you for taking me in,” he said, softly.

She took her eyes off the fire to look at him as he sat across from her. “I'd probably be dead if you weren't with me,” she said. “I couldn't...I couldn't have driven,” she admitted. “Not after the tree.”

He hummed at that, thinking about it. “You would've calmed down,” he said, and he sounded confident about it. “Although I admit to not knowing how far your car would've gone.”

She scoffed. “Probably nowhere. By the time I calmed down, I would've been snowed in,” she muttered. Still, she shook her head. “Thank you. Honestly, you really did save my life,” she said, softly. “Not just...not just with the car, but uh...”

He was silent for a time. “How long?”

She twisted the ring on her finger a little bit, back and forth. “They put him in the ground about a month after the invasion,” she said, slowly. “Found him under some rubble, but...I knew,” she said, softly. “So...”

He nodded. “I'm sorry,” he said again.

She shook her head. “You know, it's such a...unique pain,” she said. “Loss. When it first happened, when I first realized, when he didn't come home...” She took a slow, shuddering breath. “I felt like my bones were gone,” she said. “And I've lost before. I wasn't very close to my grandfather...it didn't matter much, at the time. And my dad,” she said, and he heard the crack in her voice. “I was just getting over that. Just getting past the fact that...he wouldn't be there to walk me down the aisle, or see his grandchildren,” she breathed. “And then...then, suddenly, they took the air out of my lungs. His parents called me, and I knew even before then, but to hear it aloud...to have someone else acknowledge it...”

She stared at the fire. “I was so numb. I felt like...like I was a hole. I called work. I told them I...couldn't come in. Everyone was sympathetic, of course...but every time they said _I'm sorry_ , it hurt worse than if they never said anything,” she admitted. “And it's the most horrendous feeling I know,” she murmured. “Feeling empty, and having to pretend you're not,” she added. “You know how they say the world stops when something bad happens?” She scoffed. “It's worse—it keeps turning, dragging you with it, because you have to keep living, when you're stuck in time.” She gave a heavy sigh. “And you would think it's been long enough...but the strangest things rip open the holes again,” she murmured. “I couldn't make coffee for two weeks without crying,” she said. “Because I always made his, too. And I still can't eat bologna sandwiches,” she admitted. “We ate them when he took me fishing.”

She stopped, and her fingers rubbed the grout lines in the fireplace. “I...I couldn't stop thinking about him today. I don't know why today, but I got off work and I had to see him,” she mumbled. “And I'm not sure I would've left if you hadn't been there.”

He reached out to still her nervous hands, gently. “It's okay,” he said, softly. “I know how those holes feel,” he offered, the words gentle. “But it's good you came home,” he said. “Belle needs you.”

She stared at the fire again, but let him keep her hands. His grasp was warm, and she was feeling the emotional exhaustion set in. She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose,” she agreed, but then, finally, she looked at him. “Thank you for listening to me,” she said, softly. “You're kind. And I imagine you have more reason to bellyache than me,” she said, a touch of warmth finding her voice.

He chuckled. “I'm an old man,” he returned, injecting the same little breath of warmth in to the words. “I've had some time to learn how to deal with it.” He let her go, now, though he didn't leave her.

“Hmm.” She watched him for a time. “I hope you'll forgive the hard prod to your soft spots, but...uh...if you decide you want to talk about losing everyone you ever knew the second you woke up, I'll lend an ear.” She kept her eyes on him, but she didn't look mean, or cold. She looked gentle. “Hell, I bet you didn't mourn your own death,” she said, softly.

“...What?” The confusion on his face was obvious—and genuine.

(Name) hesitated, before she turned her body to him in full, sitting up. “Well, you...'died,'” she began, gently. “I'm sure the history books are being rewritten, of course, since, technically, you're alive and well, but...” She paused, and shook her head. “You got in that plane to fight. And from what I understand, you knew you were going to die before the radio cut out,” she said. “'Course, a few years later, you wake up in a foreign world, alive, but...” Her head tilted. “You left everything. Your friends, your family, your life, your possessions, your _knowledge_. In many ways, I imagine you left yourself there, too—you left a hero in the forties, a figure, a statue, a behemoth, an icon. You left this persona and everything you knew.” She took just a little breath. “History put you in books as the sole cause of the end of the war. History paints its heroes in gold, Steve. They put you on a pedestal,” she continued. “And you woke up a man surprised to even be alive, I'll bet. You woke up to a completely foreign world—different people, different manners, different functions, different _everything_ , with no anchor but this _thing_ you had once been. You woke up to people thinking you a god among men—when, to you, you know you're human, and you know the history books overstated it all, and suddenly you have to live up to this godliness when you have to come to grips with the loss of yourself, somewhere along the way.” She took a deep breath, now. “How do you reconcile that?”

He looked surprised, and perhaps a little horrified. “I...”

She shook her head, then. “It's okay,” she said, softly. “You don't need to reply. I sort of figured you'd need to think on that,” she offered him. “I...uh, I should probably get to sleep, anyway. I need to call my boss in the morning, see what she thinks of the roads.”

Steve could only nod mutely. He wasn't apt to sharing of himself—grief was private, and so much of his life had been spent grieving, especially once he'd come out of the ice. But she'd just laid out every thought he'd never come to—everything he hadn't thought, and at hearing it, every thought he wished he'd never known.

He watched her select a pillow for herself, and then curl up on the floor, taking a single blanket for her own. She laid her arm on the ice, and then told him he could make himself comfortable as he pleased, wishing him a good night.

He was up for a good few hours, staring at the fire, listening to Belle's quiet, infrequent giggles, and her grandmother's snores.

He eventually fell asleep with a single pillow and blanket, after stoking the fire.

He woke to the sound of footsteps over his head. The ceiling was...creaking?

When he reached for the knife he kept beneath his pillow, he couldn't find it.

He wasn't cold. Well, not too cold.

He sat up slowly, and he remembered. He was in an unfamiliar home.

Both the oldest and youngest were still asleep—the latter now sprawled in an odd angle, limbs everywhere—but all the spare blankets were folded...or on him.

The fire was bright and crackling.

The power was still out.

He climbed out of his makeshift bed, folding the blankets and putting them with the others, and crept quietly up the stairs.

Sunlight, at least, threw light in to the split foyer, and he made it upstairs without tripping. He heard her voice before he saw her, “Yeah. I mean, my car's gonna cost a fortune,” she said. “And it's up to my knees out there. I haven't seen or heard a snow plow,” she continued, “and my road doesn't look like a road. I saw a tree down through the window, too.” Some silence, and then she spoke. “Thanks. I'll call again first thing, see if it looks any better,” she said. “Be safe. I'm willing to bet the roads are impassable in places,” she offered, and he was sure she was thinking of the tree he'd moved.

She turned to him once she shut her phone off. “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep alright?”

He rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.” He approached her after a moment of thought, “What are you doing up?”

She chuckled. “Trees down, snow-blocked roads...I had to call my boss. I mean, I wasn't going to go in, even if she insisted. My car wouldn't make it an inch down this road, even if I hadn't hit a tree.” She sighed, and sat down on a little sofa. He imagined the downstairs room was some sort of den—it was more enclosed, and her kitchen was up here, too. “Don't get me wrong, love my job, love my boss, but...I'm not risking my neck in this,” she said.

He chuckled. “I don't blame you,” he said. “What did she say?”

“Oh, she told me to stay home—she was about to call me. She's snowed in, too.” She sighed, and rubbed her head. “Weather's not supposed to get any better, either,” she admitted. “I checked on my phone—we're in for another layer or two through the day.” She gave a heavy sigh again, slow and deep. “We're stocked here, and we can live comfortably for a week or two if we have to,” she said, and he heard the tone of her voice change. “Do you have anyone you need to get back to, Steve? And please don't lie to me,” she said, meaning it. “I can see it on your face and I can tell the kind of person you are—you want to help people, always, and you definitely wouldn't want to stay here if you had an option.” She took a deep breath. “So. I really don't intend on letting you out of here, unless it's to get a friend to bring back with you,” she said. “I'll keep you until the weather clears. I don't want you out in this.”

He hesitated, weighing his options. He could lie to her—he'd learned to lie when he had to, when he truly needed to, but he didn't want to lie to her. And he knew exactly why she wanted him to stay.

The world outside her windows was all-white—trees were stretched toward the gray sky like skeletal fingers, and the landscape was as as smooth and white as milk.

It looked deceptively peaceful. Not even one set of tire tracks broke the smooth surface of the snow.

He took his own breath. “I'll make a deal,” he said, slowly. “You let me get the firewood, and go out, if we have to have something,” he said, firmly. “I'll earn my keep.”

She shook her head. “You don't need to do that,” she answered. “I'm going to bring in the rest of the firewood to dry in the garage, and we shouldn't need anything,” she promised. “You don't have to work, Steve. You're here as a guest.”

He looked at her, and he shook his head. “Nothing is free,” he said. “Let me do this.”

It took her a long time, but she nodded at last, giving a sigh. “Okay. Fine. Just...just, let me take down things to make breakfast, and I'll show you where we keep it,” she said.

Steve watched her fill a gallon jug with water, and throw several ingredients in a large bowl. That, she placed in a large, cast-iron pan, and balanced the heavy metal in her left arm, taking the jug with her right.

Steve took the pan before she could get to the stairs. When her eyes narrowed at him, he smiled. “Helping.”

(Name) whipped batter together for pancakes, and poured them evenly, following them with frozen sausage and some eggs, and as the fragrances began to spread from the area of the fire—she had scooped many hot coals in to a device that she used to heat the pan—her mother was the first to wake, rubbing her face, turning over on the couch, snuggling in to the cushions. “You're up much too early.”

“Blame my job,” (Name) returned. “The world waits for no one, Mom.”

There was a great deal of grumbling with this statement, but (Name) just chuckled. “Sleep as much as you want. I think I have a few days off.”

Her mother mumbled her assent, and drifted back to sleep.

But (Name) dutifully made breakfast for herself and Steve, serving him first, and she left everything else ready for the other two.

At his insistence, she finally showed him where the firewood was, and he carried it all in, despite her protests that she would help.

They played cards until Belle was up, and then (Name) was attentive to her daughter, though the tiny one seemed to favor Steve, too.

The storm kept them locked away for three days.

It wasn't as boring as Belle definitely thought it, though both Steve and (Name) took her out in turns, as it was bitingly cold, and the snow was far higher on (Name) than the burly soldier.

They finally heard the first plow on the fourth night he was there, when Belle had long drifted to sleep, and (Name)'s mother was snoring on her favorite pillow.

(Name) looked out the window to see the flashing of lights making a slow pass down the road, and she sighed, curling her arms deeper in to the thick housecoat she'd finally taken. “They're finally clearing the roads,” she murmured.

Steve joined her. It was true—from his vantage point, he couldn't see much, but the lights were enough. He watched for a little while, admitting, at least to himself, that he would miss the peace of this.

He also admitted that, if he had gone back to the place he'd been staying, he likely would've been frozen.

Again.

Still, he took a breath before he spoke, “You...uh, about what you said the other night...”

“I shouldn't have,” she immediately said, softly. “I'm certain that was very private for you and I had no right to put my nose in it.” She turned toward him. “I'm sorry.”

“No,” he said, after he took a moment for thought. “I sort of wish it hadn't come out that way, but...you're right,” he offered. “To be honest, I didn't...ever notice. Didn't think of it,” he admitted. “They got me out of the ice and I...yeah, I realized how much I'd lost. I realized that...everyone was gone. And I did start mourning them, I started wishing...well,” he cut himself off. “But when they asked me...when they told me they needed Captain America, I went in head first.” He turned to look outside again. Another plow was just out of his vision. “It kept me from thinking too much. I mean, I know how to be a soldier—I know how to be Captain America,” he said, and the words were a little awkward, a little fumbled. “But...you're right. Somebody else came out of that ice. I was beginning to think about it, that maybe I'd left something back there, but...you're not wrong, about me fitting up to a name that...is probably a little too big for me.” He'd never thought of how he would've been so big in history—how people would've chalked up huge deeds to his name and how people, surely, thought too highly of him now. “And I've been going since they first called me to tackle Loki,” he said. “I haven't stopped to think about it all since...except the funeral.”

(Name) pulled her housecoat tighter, but she walked to the window he was staring out of, knowing he must have had too much to think about in all this. But he'd stayed with them. She just barely laid her hand on his wrist. “What about Steve Rogers?” She asked the question gently. “You think he didn't make it out of the ice?”

He thought about that for a very long moment. Her hand was warm, despite the cold seeping through the house.

“I think it might be better that he didn't,” he finally decided, but he did not elaborate.

She thought about that, and chose not to ask. But she did gently wrap his hand in hers. “If you decide that's the wrong answer,” she said, softly, carefully, “why don't you come back here?” She paused, and squeezed his hand, just once. “I know you've made friends, out of the ice...but if I may say so myself, Steve Rogers might need a hot meal and a safe place away from the supernatural.”

He almost smiled.

She let go of him, now, and went to the little pillow she always slept on. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

When morning light came, she knew he had been long gone.

He had folded the pajamas neatly, and left a small _thank you_ note atop them.

Though she made the offer sincerely, and hoped he might, one day, take her up on it, she did not expect him to return.

He didn't, for a very long time.

Winter melted in to spring, and summer burned for much too long, but fall brought cool winds and warm drinks.

(Name) heard the knock as she sat down to work a puzzle with her daughter.

She promised Belle she'd be back, and waiting, awkwardly, for her was one Steve Rogers, in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He looked shy. “I...uh, I was wondering—”

“Coffee's on, and I'm making soup for dinner,” she interrupted, smiling. “Come on.”

He waited for a moment, before he pulled a photo out of his back pocket. The man in the photo was almost skeletal—skinny, small, and very unhealthy-looking.

But his face was absolutely the one she was looking at.

“This...is Steve Rogers,” he said, quietly. “A skinny kid with asthma, who wanted to join the war because he didn't like bullies.” A wry smile found his face. “And he might have lied on several government forms to try his luck, too,” he said, a little chuckle in his throat. “But...the guy...the guy who picked me, the guy who decided I should be the experiment, he...uh, he told me something, and I've done some thinking.” He paused, looking at the photo himself. “He told me...to stay who I was. Not a perfect soldier...but a good man.” He put the photo back in his back pocket. “I'm not sure I'm a good man. I've...killed people. I've let people die. I've let people down,” he said, slowly. “I always wanted to do the right thing, but...I'm not sure _the right thing_ is so clear, anymore.”

She looked at him now, and she smiled. She reached for his arms, pulling until she was holding his hands. “Want to stay for a while? I'll make you earn your keep, this time,” she teased.

A wry smile found his face. “You sure that's okay?”

“Come on, Steve. I made that offer sincerely, and it remains.” She pulled at his hands gently. “You can stay, as long as you like. Get your feet under you.” She squeezed his hands, very firmly. “I think, somewhere in your head, you're still standing on ice. Let's get you back to shore.”

"Thank you,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this needs to have a sequel, but I haven't yet written one for it. I think this can stand alone as a complete story, but might be better if I go ahead and write a second part, but I'd like some feedback—would you like to see one?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed that! Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _DISCLAIMER:_** I do **NOT** own _Captain America_ or any of its contents or characters. This is written purely for fun; I make no profit from this.
> 
> Hi guys! So, I actually meant to post this on July Fourth ('cuz, y'know, happy birthday, Cap!) but...forgot. *Cough.*
> 
> Um, that said, this is a continuation long in coming (it's been almost a year and, really, I've been working on this bit of it for a couple months now, slowly) but I finally have it.
> 
> It IS a very long continuation but I couldn't find a place to break it.
> 
> This could also, technically, lead in to a third part...but you guys can let me know if you want it!
> 
> Slight warning: Some dark thoughts, and an almost-panic attack.
> 
> Off you go! Enjoy.

Early mornings were anything but unfamiliar to Steve.  
  
What _was_ unfamiliar—though becoming familiar, even _comforting_ —was the smell of coffee and breakfast permeating his room when he first woke.  
  
He rolled out of bed and made it, a force of habit from his brief—but forceful—time in the military.  
  
He began smiling long before he stepped in the kitchen, hearing the sound of her humming.  
  
More than once he had stopped before he got to the kitchen just to listen to her, because she always stopped the moment she saw him—as though embarrassed or nervous. But he wouldn’t pressure her—she’d given him a room in her home, had taken him in as a whole, had taken him to get clothes and had even gotten him a foot in the door in a job, of sorts.  
  
His circumstances were...unusual, at best.  
  
But she was the most unusual thing. She was smart, beautiful, and confident—even though they were still getting used to each other. She was kind, kinder than he imagined someone should be. She had a daughter that she took care of, and a mother that she heeded, and she worked herself so hard—but she was always smiling.  
  
Despite their meeting, despite the circumstances both had endured, she welcomed him—welcomed him like family.  
  
He saw things she didn’t want him to, of course—he saw the brief moments when her mind flashed back to the life she _should_ have had, he saw the moments when she glimpsed something in him she had lost, and he saw the rare, thousand-yard-stare she gave the coffeemaker on some mornings.  
  
Maybe the strangest thing was that, with no war to fight, no bad guy to chase, no world-ending plot…  
  
Steve felt safe.  
  
And maybe, he felt a lot more for this peculiar, astounding, tough woman—who had a heart too big for her chest—than he should.  
  
He couldn’t pick up the melody she was humming this morning, at first, though he lingered for a moment to see if he could figure it out. He was exposed to a plethora of music just from her blasting it while she showered, or when she was doing housework—she adamantly resented the television being on while she worked, because it was “annoying.”  
  
Then, it sunk in.  
  
“...Are you humming ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’?” His voice was filled with the astonishment spilling out of his brain.  
  
Her cheeks flushed with color, and she reflexively covered them with her hands. “Yeah, I uh...” There was a pause while she rubbed her face. “...Wait. How do you know that song?”  
  
He tried not to mentally acknowledge the insistent idea that _she was adorable when she blushed,_ but he began to grin, anyway. “It was a wartime thing, back then,” he said, and she could hear his smile even though she wasn’t directly watching him—her fingers were over her eyes. “A bit of a call to arms before the US joined the war—a prep song, sorta.”  
  
She parted her fingers to glance at the pan where she had eggs frying. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t...”  
  
“No,” he offered, quickly, grinning. “It’s not as... _sensitive_ as you think,” he offered. But he reached out, and very gently, clasped her wrists with his hands, pulling softly. “It sounds a bit different than the one I knew. Your version?”  
  
She debated addressing the first part of that, and when he pulled her hands away, she had to think fast. “Do you...want to talk about it?” The words were quiet, but seeking. And then she blushed, “No, I um...I listen to covers of music a lot—I mean, you know I listen to a lot of music, but I tend to appreciate covers...more than the originals, sometimes, right?” When he nodded, now used to her enough to follow her somewhat scattered thoughts, she almost smiled. “It’s an a cappella cover,” she said. “No instruments—and it’s my alarm in the morning, because it’s so _fun._ ”  
  
Steve looked surprised, and then mildly confused. He rolled it all over in his head as she realized she needed to turn the eggs, and thought. “I can’t say that I’ve... _thought_ about talking about it, but maybe...if you have questions…?” Steve didn’t bring it up, really—it was a different era. Everything was so different now, even things he thought wouldn’t change had completely come unstuck—it amazed him what coffeemakers could do now. Still, he didn’t know where he could begin. A part of him missed it—a big part—but he couldn’t cling to it because it just made it worse. Still, he _would_ cling to the sweet blush she’d worn, and he smiled at her, “Could I listen to it, maybe? I hear a lot of music you play but I’m not sure I’ve heard that one.” If there was one thing he loved, it was when she was passionate, and he didn’t get to see that as often as he wanted—he saw her looking after Belle, saw her when she was rushing off to work, watched her deal with phone calls and helped her carry groceries in, watched her working her life away.  
  
But now and again, on a weekend or when she had some time to herself and he had the opportunity, he liked to ask her questions, liked to find out things about her.  
  
What she loved most, outside her family, was music.  
  
He loved hearing her talk about music.  
  
This just gave him an opening to get a look at her again, and he took it in greedily.  
  
She was plating—and cracking—eggs as he spoke, working with an ease he admired, but he only watched her, staying far enough away to give her room. “Well, I have to admit—I’m a little curious...but if I ask something you don’t want to answer, I want you to tell me, okay?” She paused to look at him after she scooped the yolk out of the egg she was working with. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” She paused, though, and she grinned. “Okay. After I get breakfast done. That okay?”  
  
Steve admired her a lot—she was a gentle heart, and he appreciated that about her. A part of him ached for it—he’d lost so much already—but she was exactly the type of woman someone couldn’t help loving. He tried to ignore that. He reminded himself that love began as a feeling, but it was a _choice._ A choice to act on it—and then a choice to stick with it, when the feeling wore off. He took a breath in and exhaled it sharply, pushing those thoughts out at the same time, but he was smiling. “Yeah. Thanks.” He was relieved at that, but he desperately wished he could find a solid way to ignore the insistent thoughts of her, the feelings she brought about. He also wished he could better hide his feelings—she knew how to read people a little too well, sometimes, he personally thought. Still, he managed to smile, “Sure.”  
  
This was one of those times, for she paused and turned her full attention to him, her whole body facing him. Her mouth even dropped down at the corners, just a little, “I won’t ask you anything, Steve,” she promised, shaking her head. “I don’t want to cause you any pain.”  
  
In an awful, ironic way, she already was—just because she was kind enough to not want him to hurt, it caused him some agony just for how sweet she was, because he knew this wasn’t his to keep.  
  
One day, war would come knocking at his door again.  
  
But he had to calm her down right now, so he smiled at her as soothingly as he could, “That’s not it,” he assured, keeping his voice level—if he could not hide his feelings, he could at least attempt to control them and present the ones he needed. “Just a little worried about Belle—she’s usually up with us by now,” he said. It wasn’t an outright lie, really—she _did_ usually get up not long after breakfast was started.  
  
She still seemed a little skeptical, but to his relief, she didn’t press him, “Don’t jinx it! It’s Saturday—she’s _supposed_ to sleep in a little extra today,” she insisted, teasing, but he knew it was true. (Name) often got up earlier than usual on Saturdays—it gave her a little time of her own before she spent the day with her daughter.  
  
Steve found himself thankful that she didn’t mind his presence even though she was deliberately taking her own time away from Belle. “I’m sure she’ll sleep a little while longer,” he offered, thinking of how Belle _did_ like to sleep in—and then get up and watch cartoons after breakfast, before she went out to play. “But I do mean that—you can ask me questions.”  
  
She rolled that around in her head, but Steve was already moving when he saw her beginning to put their breakfasts in order—she’d made sausage, eggs, biscuits, and their morning coffee. He poured hers the way she liked it—he’d seen her make it enough to replicate it—and carried it to the little table they used for meals, and he pushed her chair in for her—something that, though he didn’t know it, always made a few butterflies wing through her stomach. “Well...I admit, I do have one question—but you don’t have to answer,” she added, quickly, and she took a sip of her coffee, thanking him for it. “Dad always complained about the prices...like, a soda and a candy bar used to be a dime, for him,” she said, and she saw Steve’s lips twitch. “But I’m wondering about quality—do things taste different? There’s so many chemicals in soda, did it used to taste different? And what about coffee? And I know things are produced with worse quality—I have a bedroom suit passed down from my great grandmother, and it’s sturdier than anything else I own.” She grinned sheepishly, seeming genuinely curious, though he was privately pleased that the first question had been utterly impersonal.  
  
Steve took a bit of breakfast as he thought about that, considering the question. “Well, you know, back then, we were just coming out of the Great Depression, but we were going to war, so things were still pretty scarce, sometimes,” he started, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Soda was a little sweeter, I think—but I don’t drink it now. I gotta admit to the label scaring me a bit,” he said, a sheepish smile on his face. “I’m sure it’s not much different than what we had back then, but the ingredients put me off a little.” It was probably odd, but he admitted that a little bit of him found the long list of preservatives made him wary—even though it probably wouldn’t make the slightest difference in his health even if it was all he drank, considering the serum in him. “And coffee is _so_ different now,” he said, sounding almost relieved to spit that out. “Back in the military, it was _tar._ I mean, they made it strong—it’d peel the enamel off your teeth,” he added, frowning mildly as he glanced at the smooth, thin drink on the table. “It was a little gelatinous, I swear...though that might have been a military thing,” he added. He thought, though, and looked at her cream-colored coffee. “Now, when you order coffee, there’s five-hundred flavors and styles—and you have to specify the type of roast you want.” He shook his head. “It makes me feel a little old when I think how _simple_ some things were.” It wasn’t hard to admit—he had to come to grips with this time, after all. “And things were made differently, by far—we had industrial things, too, of course, but now, there are machines to make your coffee and fold your clothes,” he said, grinning. “I think we used up the better resources, in some ways—part of why your old bedroom suit is real wood and new stuff is made out of pressboard,” he added. “Although it’s not all bad—it’s a huge change for a guy who woke up after a seventy-year nap, but I like some of the changes.”  
  
She had relaxed and was sipping her coffee while she listened, watching him intently. She was smiling. “I admit I kind of...having you around, I do wonder, sometimes,” she said, softly, but she was smiling. “Even when I was a kid...I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not as big a change, but when I was a kid, cellphones weren’t like they are now—you had to have it in a car, and it still had a cord, and just a dial-pad—Grandma had one because she traveled a lot, and I remember it was in this zipper case,” she said, and she was grinning. “Now the damn thing fits in my pocket, and not just for calls—I’ve got a portable computer on my person all the time,” she said. “And in school, we were taught about looking stuff up in libraries and encyclopedias—now you can ask your phone a question and it spits out the answer like it’s nothing.”  
  
He watched her talking, saw her grinning the whole time, and he had to laugh. “I don’t feel so old, now!” He was teasing, but he delighted in hearing her talk like that. “But really, I didn’t know that so much of technology revolutionized in the past...what, fifteen years? Maybe twenty? I woke up and it’s _all_ new, but it’s nice to hear someone tell me they’re adjusting, a bit, when they’re still young.”  
  
She grinned at him and waved her hand, “Are you kidding? There are kids in Belle’s preschool who work tablets better than I do—and she wants one, but I can’t bring myself to buy it for her,” she said, shaking her head. “It feels like it’s too much to hand her at once—I mean, I know how to set up some safety parameters, to keep her from getting anything too bad, but some people don’t tag or label the stuff she shouldn’t see, so it feels so dangerous to think of handing her the world in a little piece of technology.” She paused, then, and rubbed her face. “I have cousins with kids just a little older than Belle and they listen to rap music with so many swears I feel guilty just _hearing_ it. They look up videos with more ease than I do sometimes, and they all think they should have their own tablet or phone—because they all want to do something different at once,” she said, shaking her head. “It drives me crazy, because Mom just lets them—there’ll be some kid show on the TV, and Belle is being so good, watching it, but the other kids have something else they’re watching on a tablet, or they’re playing some game...” She rubbed her face again, pulling her hair a little. “When I was a kid and there was more than one of us in the house, if we wouldn’t all watch the same movie or play the same game, we had to go outside to play, or we would have some outside, some sitting at the TV...we didn’t all get to do what we wanted.” She was staring at her coffee now. “It makes me feel old, because I hate the idea that they have this instant gratification—but I also wasn’t raised on technology the way they are. Their mother is always on the phone so that’s what _they_ think they should be doing. I feel guilty if I don’t play with Belle, or at least watch something with her—but those kids? Their mother is wrapped up in herself so much, they take what they’ve got. It makes me feel bad to scold them for being such little brats, because they don’t know better, but a part of me is so _resentful_ because I’m raising Belle the best I can and she’s a good kid, even objectively, but those kids don’t have that example.” She paused, rubbing her face yet again—it was something Steve knew was a show of her genuine fluster. “I’m afraid to let her start using tablets, too, because of that—and I know it’s just the way they’re being raised, but I don’t want Belle getting hold of that and start to think that she deserves to have it all the time.”  
  
Steve knew how she felt—and a part of him agreed with her, even though Belle wasn’t his. He didn’t know technology half so well as he should, but he knew videos went up minutes—sometimes seconds—after something happened. He knew a lot of the horrors of the world were put on the internet moments after it happened, and being around (Name), and Belle...he didn’t want either of them to have to see those things. But a part of him knew how far behind he was when it came to technology, and how _hard_ it was to figure out from scratch. He also knew that (Name) let Belle play with her phone, a little, and he was certain school would introduce her to a lot of technology...but a big part of him knew just how (Name) felt about Belle getting hold of too much, too fast.  
  
Even though he was learning—and both (Name) and Belle had helped him along—he still preferred paper and pen to a computer, or a phone, and a part of him still thought there should be a phone hanging on the kitchen wall.  
  
But now things were so different…  
  
“She’s a good kid,” he said, suddenly, but he paused for a moment, smiling at her. “I think...well, first, I think I don’t have any right to tell you how to raise your daughter,” he said, perhaps a little wryly, “but if you’ll take my two cents...I think, if you teach her what she can and can’t do—and, more importantly, _why_ she can’t do certain things—she’s likely to take it to heart and listen to you,” he said. He watched her move, then, and she lifted her head slightly, having had it buried in her hands. She peeked at him around the tips of her fingers. “I think a lot of kids now maybe _need_ a reason to listen to their parents...maybe because other kids get to do things,” he suggested. “So maybe if you tell her that there are bad things she shouldn’t see—and maybe if you explain to her that even _you_ don’t like to see them—she might be a little more likely to listen to you.”  
  
(Name) watched him after he said that, feeling surprised, and not just slightly humbled. He wasn’t wrong—not really—that kids now needed reasons for _everything._ She remembered her mother telling her that she would always ask “why,” but equally, she remembered that, most of the time, she would simply listen to her mother, though a few times it took some explanation. But kids in Belle’s generation were more curious and self-reliant—and had friends that got to do things they couldn’t—and that made as much of an impression as the way they were raised. She hesitated, and then tilted her head at him, “Thank you.” It wasn’t everything she wanted to say—not by a long shot, but there were too many words, and not enough space. “I think...I think you’re right,” she managed, after she wrestled the words a little bit, and she saw Steve’s startlingly blue eyes widen. “Although it might still wait. I’m an old woman of a single mother—I want to protect her.”  
  
Steve’s surprise morphed to amusement, and he grinned, “You’re talking to a ninety-year-old. You’re still a kid, yourself!”  
  
She was bewildered, for a moment, before she laughed, too, and then she watched him for a while. “You know, sometimes...sometimes, I forget that,” she admitted, but she was smiling. “I mean, there are moments where I can’t forget it—you staring at the coffeemaker that first morning like it was an alien was a definite marker—but I have to admit...I do forget.” She put her coffee mug down, watching him. “Does it bother you when people forget?”  
  
He thought about that for a little while, and she ate quietly—they were taking turns, after all. “Actually, I kind of...I like it,” he said, softly. “It makes me feel a little more human, when you can forget that I’m not your age.”  
  
She had picked up her coffee again, now—there was just a little toast left on her plate, at this point, and she took a slow sip of her coffee as she watched him. “You don’t act old,” she said, softly, thoughtfully. “Not like Dad. He complained a lot, about prices and music and TV and...well, the old man was a grump.” She paused, and he saw her looking past him, now, saw her a thousand miles away. “But I guess...I guess he had reason,” she murmured, and her voice was quiet, but she shook her head. “Hmm. That’s a story for another day, though. Whole ‘nother can of worms, there,” she said, trying to laugh, but he could tell it was something bad. “I mean, there are things you don’t understand...and reasonably, you shouldn’t,” she said, and she took a breath. “But really, there are things I still have to fiddle with to figure out—it took me a while to navigate my phone, but all technology...I mean, if you don’t play with it, you can’t figure it out. Instruction books are harder to read—I learn best by poking around.” She paused, and then she smiled at him a little. “Honestly, it’s nice, sort of, that you don’t know it all—it makes me feel a little better, because some of my younger coworkers use things that I don’t and I get so _confused_ when they mention it.”  
  
He grinned at her for that, but he’d finished his meal, now—though it was bigger than hers, he was a supersoldier with the metabolism to match. “Now _that_ makes me feel younger,” he teased.  
  
She shook her head, but stood, stretching. “Want more coffee? It’s my turn to bring it to you,” she said, and she was already reaching for his mug, which he was easing toward the table.  
  
“You don’t have—”  
  
“Steve Rogers, if you tell me ‘you don’t have to do that’ _one more time_ I’m going to find a way to _embarrass_ you out of saying it!” Her eyes had narrowed at him, now, and there was a tone in her voice that Steve knew right away. “I can’t out-stubborn you, so I’ll take the easy way—I’ll embarrass you over it.”  
  
Though mildly scolded by the outburst, Steve grinned at her, a bit unrepentant, “You’re using your _mom_ voice on me,” he teased, intending to throw her off, because, as gentlemanly as he definitely was, a small part of him absolutely _delighted_ in seeing her flustered for a moment, mostly because she was so composed all the time—she had to be, for Belle.  
  
He got the right reaction—color flooded her cheeks and she glowered at him, and then pulled his coffee mug right out of his hand and disappeared in to the kitchen.  
  
Steve let himself chuckle quietly.  
  
(Name) nearly _dropped_ the coffee on the table in front of him. “I’ll show you my _mom_ voice if you don’t behave,” she threatened, but the words were grumbled under her breath.  
  
He waited until she was sitting before he spoke, taking a long drink of the coffee she’d just brought him. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant that. Still, he took a moment to let her stew as she chewed her toast grumpily, emptying her plate. “You know, (Name), you _are_ a good mother,” he said, trying to get her attention, certain that her mind was lingering on their conversation—she was a thinker. “And I know that it’s not easy...being a single mother,” he said, softly, “I know how hard you work—and all for her.” She finally lifted her eyes to him, not quite as upset as before, though he knew a small part of her did it to put on a show—(Name) was a good heart and an honest tongue. She knew he was teasing her. “You’re doing right by her, (Name). If she’s anything like you—and she is already—she’s going to be a good kid, and a great woman, because of you.”  
  
This time, the blush was genuine embarrassment brought on by his compliment—and the humble feeling of having him directly tell her that, despite all her worries and doubts, he believed in her. She dropped her eyes to stare at her coffee. “Thank you, Steve,” she said, softly.  
  
Quiet reigned while Steve watched her over the lip of his mug, and she stared at her cup of caffeine for a long time.  
  
“Can I ask you something, Steve?”  
  
Her tone threw him off—as hesitant as it was curious, his brain spun to catch up to the implications her tone threw at him. He paused to think before he could answer. “That depends—why does it sound like you’re afraid to ask?”  
  
Steve knew the circumstances he was in...well, they wouldn’t have flown, in his time.  
  
A single mother, who bore a child out of wedlock, would have been ostracized, in his time.  
  
On top of that, no single woman would have _dreamed_ of having an equally single man living under her roof—and it would be extraordinary circumstances to have her calling it _her roof._  
  
But things were different now, and the world had changed so much.  
  
But her _tone_ said so many things, and he wasn’t sure he liked the way it sounded, just for the fact that she sounded like she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask him the question in the first place.  
  
As awful as it might have been to answer her question with a question, Steve was fast learning that there were just certain things you didn’t stick your nose in.  
  
“It’s personal,” she said, quietly, staring at her coffee—she hadn’t once glanced up at him. “And not the ‘what’s-your-favorite-color’ type of personal, either.”  
  
Steve rolled that through his head several times, and though she insisted that he didn’t have to let her ask, he finally responded. “You can ask—but I’ll reserve the right not to answer, if it comes to it.”  
  
She didn’t speak for a long time, looking at her coffee, before she finally mustered the courage she needed. “Did you ever want kids, Steve? You know...maybe, before the war? I mean, what I’m seeing of the world, a part of me wishes that Belle didn’t have to see all the fighting that goes on...and I’m not really near it,” she murmured, but she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “But I know back then, most people wanted a family, kids...I mean, it’s not my place to guess, but...”  
  
He was surprised by the question, and, perhaps even more, by her behavior. He watched her for a long time as he thought, rolling the idea through his head. “I’m...not sure I ever...thought about... _kids,_ ” he said, after a very long time, but he was watching her, even though he was, in some ways, far away from the room they shared. “Before the war, you know...I was this scrawny kid with asthma who...well, I had a long list of health problems that were more than enough to disqualify me from enlistment, and really, I was lucky when I was walking around without some kind of pain,” he said. “I know science argues about a lot of stuff being genetic, but uh...I think, as much of a little punk as I was, I didn’t think of kids...because I didn’t want to pass that on.” He paused, and it was his turn to look at his coffee. “I mean, not that any girl would look at me twice back then for it to become a thing.”  
  
She was watching him, too, but now she did it in full, lifting her eyes a little to look at him more directly. She was quiet for a time. “Is this one of those cans of worms I’m always worried about opening?”  
  
A wry smile found his face for the way she said it, and he paused for a very long moment. “Well, that depends—how do you feel about hearing my nonexistent dating history?”  
  
Surprised, she relaxed a little, and she smiled. “I’d find it hard to believe, if I’m being honest,” she said, softly, “but I also know you the way everyone else does, these days—the Great American Hero...not just... _Steve Rogers,_ although I’m trying to be good about looking at you more as the latter,” she said.  
  
Steve’s smile was another wry one, and he scoffed, perhaps a little bitterly. “I appreciate that,” he said, first, and then he took a very brief, but sharp breath in. “Bucky, my...uh...well, my best friend, back...” He paused and he had to clear his throat, and she saw his hand pull away from the mug and the table.  
  
It was shaking.  
  
He took a breath. “Bucky always dragged some poor girl with her friend to go on a double-date with the two of us...but, uh...the girl with me was always disappointed, of course.” He paused, an almost resentful chuckle escaping. “After seeing Buck, this big, handsome guy...well, I’m sure the girl was expecting an equal partner, and all she got was an asthmatic who couldn’t walk right sometimes because his heart was beating out his chest,” he said, and she could see the anguish—and perhaps a drop of resentment—on his face. “Never had a second date. And then, the serum…I gotta admit, coming out of that tube, I had to be high.” His voice had changed to hold some wonder. “I’d never _not_ had pain. It hurt to breathe, and I had almost no health to speak of, you know...but the serum, that caused so much pain, I thought I would die before it worked on me,” he admitted. “The chemicals in my head must have overdosed me, because when they tipped me out, I could _breathe_ —I had so much oxygen going to my head it was dizzying, and the pain had forced my brain to try to compensate with a chemical bath. I’ll tell you, I chased a guy, barefoot, fell through a store window, rode the top of a car while being shot at, got thrown off the roof, got shot, and then jumped in the water and swam like a fish, and I barely _felt_ any of it.” His eyes were staring at his coffee again. “But that wasn’t the weirdest part—it was seeing women come on to me.” He scoffed, and she didn’t laugh, even though he expected it. “I’d never had a woman look at me twice, you know? And suddenly I had one corner me and kiss me like she wanted _more_ than that.” He glanced up to see her smiling, but it didn’t seem judgmental at all. “And not all of them were so forward, of course, but I saw the _look_ they gave me—and then, I mean, Peggy...”  
  
Another breath, and she heard him clear his throat, saw his shoulders tighten under the white shirt he wore. It took him another several moments. “Mm. Well. It hasn’t come up, not really. I’m always fighting.”  
  
A portion of her felt awful for asking the questions, but a part of her also felt sorry for him. Another much smaller part of her hated the last part. _Always fighting_. She hesitated as she ran her thumb over the edge of her mug. “You’re not fighting, now,” she murmured, after a long moment, but she shook her head. “But I sort of...understand that,” she said, not quite giving him time to respond to the first portion of it. “I never thought about it until...but, uh, I have Belle. Not sure how I feel about more,” she admitted softly.  
  
He could feel the tension in both of them, but he didn’t quite want to diffuse it. Not yet. This was one of the rare times he was allowed to have her to himself, and though she wasn’t _his_ by any means, a small part of him was secreting little things away, holding on to them.  
  
In truth, Steve Rogers was falling in love with her so fast that even _he_ couldn’t catch himself.  
  
But in his head, he was certain he couldn’t have that.  
  
In turn, a tiny part of him was taking these tiny, stolen moments and holding them safe inside himself—to him, this was all he could have.  
  
“What about if you find someone else? Would you want another, with them?” He let the question out because he wanted to know—but more than that, because he could watch her think, could file away another little picture of her taking her time to answer him, when so much of the world was in a hurry.  
  
“I think...I think it’s going to be hard to find someone who...would accept Belle,” she admitted. “You know, a lot _has_ changed, of course, but there are some things that linger. And men who want kids...well, they don’t want someone else’s kid, usually, and they especially wouldn’t want to compete with the kid’s dead father,” she said, and Steve knew there wasn’t a bit of her laugh that wasn’t forced. “And I’ll admit it to myself—I’m still getting over that. I wonder if I ever will, when she has his nose, and the way he laughed...but it would take an extraordinary person to come in, and love both myself, and Belle, when I’m damaged, and she’s a dead man’s kid,” she said. She paused, and her smile was sad. “Given that, I think there would be a long discussion at hand about more kids.”  
  
Steve was surprised by the way she said it, and perhaps a little embarrassed. He paused before he spoke. “I don’t think it would be as hard as you think,” he said, quietly. “You’re incredible, and Belle is a good kid.” He didn’t want to admit his feelings—in fact, he was trying to deny them—but he didn’t want her to doubt herself.  
  
She took a sip of her coffee with that, and chuckled. “You’re kind, Steve...and there aren’t many men like you in the world,” she said. “And it’s not just the fact that you were born to a different sort of world—you could’ve changed with the times, or you could just be a soldier, but you’re a good man,” she said, gently. “You’re kind, and thoughtful, and even though...I mean, forgive me for saying this so directly, even though we’re not dating—even though you’re not Belle’s dad—you play with her, and you look after us.” She paused, and she saw a faint pink on his cheeks. “I’m used to being the brave one, but there was a night, I heard a crash in the kitchen, and I _knew_ you’d been out—you went to bed before I did because I was doing paperwork after I put Belle to bed. But I grabbed a baseball bat and just as I got to your room in the hall, I saw you cross in to the kitchen. And then I saw your shadow cross the dining room, and then edge around the living room, too, and I don’t know how you didn’t see me—you went downstairs to check, too,” she said, and she was smiling. “Of course, come morning light, I found out it was just a dish that clattered against the wall next to the drying rack, but you checked the whole house.” Her face fell, suddenly, and she looked a little more reserved. “And that jerk at the park...I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there,” she added, quietly. Still, she shook her head. “You’re kind, but it’s not just that...you care about people, and you’ve got a big heart. You’re a good person,” she said, and she meant it.  
  
Steve wasn’t sure which pain was worse—the pain of thinking that she was so kind to him, when he was only doing what he thought was right, or the ache in his chest that wanted to tell her _everything_. She had taken him, and all his baggage, in, without even a pause—she cleaned out the guest bedroom in a single day and took him to get clothes, and though she hadn’t forced him, she’d made a small suggestion—that he let his hair grow out just a little, if he wanted to remain in disguise—his habitual shaping of it in to a traditional sort of military cut made him a little more identifiable. She had also gotten his foot in the door to have some income while he was there—he now did illustrations for local advertisements and businesses, and she had shown him how to start selling his art online, though she had, also, suggested that he take a pseudonym—art signed by Steve Rogers was likely to get him tracked down in a heartbeat.  
  
But the day he’d come back to her, he had almost hoped she would turn him away, because he was certain it would be better for her, if he didn’t linger.  
  
But she’d welcomed him in, had taken his hands and had pulled at him, had brought him inside and Belle had shouted his name, seeming delighted with his presence. He’d given the little girl a hug, and she had climbed right in to his arms to hug his neck. She’d sat beside him at dinner that night, and (Name)’s mother hadn’t minded a bit to see him come in—(Name) had disappeared while the soup was cooking, leaving him working the puzzle with Belle (at Belle’s insistence) and the older woman had been informed about what was going on.  
  
She’d grinned and patted him on the back as she went to sit down at the table, and then had joked about him being able to get things out of the upper cabinets in the kitchen when she couldn’t reach them, seeming perfectly at ease with taking him in.  
  
(Name) had such a big heart—she was kind and generous, but she was so strong, despite her gentle nature.  
  
Her voice interrupted his thoughts, “I’m sorry. I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”  
  
He couldn’t respond, at first, as he felt her hand on his shoulder, a light touch, and he just watched her for a long moment, seeing her genuine concern, and he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—quite stop it—he reached up to cup her jaw softly.  
  
Her heart skipped at least one beat, and then drummed frantically against her chest.  
  
“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he murmured.  
  
She knew it wasn’t the coffee messing with her heart rate, but his touch, much gentler than his size and strength—and the fact that he was just a little more than human—would have suggested.  
  
His skin was perfectly warm and he didn’t pull at her—just cradled her in his hand.  
  
“Steve, I—”  
  
Her phone rattled, buzzing, across the table, making her jump slightly out of his grasp.  
  
Steve let his arm rest on the table, his hand not quite willing to curl back around the mug as he watched her stumble to pick up her phone, shutting off the alarm.  
  
Her brows were furrowed, and she peered around the corner.  
  
The TV wasn’t on.  
  
Steve didn’t need an explanation and didn’t expect one—she disappeared from his sight in a moment and went toward the hall, only to yelp. “Mom!”  
  
Steve heard a quiet chuckle, “Sorry, dear. I was sneaking in to see if you had anything left on your plate.”  
  
“No, but I’ll take care of you in a minute—I need to check on Belle,” she said, and Steve could hear the urgency in her voice, even if he hadn’t been able to see the tension in her shoulders.  
  
Before the older woman could respond, (Name) was dashing around her and down the hall toward the bedrooms.  
  
Her mother shuffled to the table and grinned at Steve with all the mischief of a child. “I’m gonna take Belle to the park after breakfast,” she started, keeping her voice low, “and you, sir, would be a fool not to take the opportunity.” She paused, patting him on the back just the way she had when he’d first come back, “Though I do believe you’re humble enough not to notice she’s _very_ fond of you.”  
  
Disappearing around the corner, humming as she went in to the kitchen, Steve was left to feel the heat flood in to his cheeks.  
  
(Name) came back in to the little dining room with a heavy sigh, rubbing her temple, “Sorry, Steve,” she said, quietly. “You know I get a bit worried if she’s not up by now.” But she paused, her brows furrowing, “Are you alright?”  
  
Steve couldn’t keep himself from giving a quick glance toward the kitchen, but he nodded, anyway, “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his cheeks ruefully. “She okay?”  
  
If (Name) noticed something amiss, she didn’t say anything—she just nodded, humming, “Mm-hmm. _Mom,_ ” she said, emphasizing the name almost viciously, “didn’t tell me she had already checked on the little bugger and told her to get dressed,” she said.  
  
Steve hid his smile as (Name) rolled her eyes and went in to the kitchen, and he followed her, leaning in the doorway, holding his coffee, just watching her as she nudged her mother gently out of the way. “Are you still hungry, Steve?” The words were soft, but distinct. “Since I’ll be cooking for two I can make more just as easily,” she offered.  
  
Steve shook his head quickly, “I’m fine. You made me more than enough,” he assured. He paused, however, “But maybe you could play that song while you cook…?”  
  
The longer Steve stayed, the more he began to cling to her, because he was certain that, one morning, he would wake up, and the news would be full of villains trying to take over the world and he would have to leave.  
  
He was greedily clinging to her, wanting to keep this safe place a part of himself, because he knew he couldn’t stay forever—he knew that, he knew he would have to go back to fighting.  
  
But this was peace and safety and a life he knew that wasn’t _his_ , but it was the life he would have wanted in another world.  
  
He knew that, if things were different for him, this was exactly what he wanted—a home, a family, acceptance, safety, _sanity_ , a world of peace.  
  
He had grown up in war and knew what it was like to have so little that meals were sparse and everything was a hand-me-down.  
  
This life, this life with her, with a loving mother, and a sweet daughter…  
  
It was more than he wanted. More than he could ever want, after he had experienced war and loss most of his life.  
  
But he would cling to it, because a fraction of him _wanted_ it.  
  
He memorized her blush, and then her grin, and she fiddled with her phone for a moment before music began playing.  
  
It was fun—a playful song that Belle danced to when she walked in, dressed, her hair messy, but her clothes neat and a sleepy look on her face until she started moving to the song.  
  
Steve memorized that, too.  
  
(Name) made a healthy breakfast for her mother and daughter, and—Steve suspected it was intentional—a little too much for either of them, and Steve helped them finish it. He would never ask for more than she made him—she took incredible care of him as it was, even though she didn’t have to—even though she shouldn’t.  
  
Perhaps her mother was right…  
  
But soon after, the older woman went to the bathroom to take care of her face and teeth, and she got dressed and told (Name) that she was taking Belle to the park and to see a movie that (Name) didn’t want to see, even though Belle did.  
  
(Name) was already washing the dishes from breakfast at the time and utterly missed her mother’s long, meaningful look at Steve.  
  
But (Name) paused long enough to squeeze Belle in a tight, loving hug and kiss her forehead, and to hug her mother, and give her love, too.  
  
(Name) washed the dishes and set them to dry before she let out some of her stress—she rubbed her face and tangled her fingers in her hair, breathing a long, heavy sigh—Steve had vanished a few moments before, presumably to brush his teeth or something, she was sure.  
  
Had Steve been about to…? Surely he wasn’t thinking of kissing her.  
  
He couldn’t.  
  
She was a single woman with a child—as she’d said, a child from another man, a now- _dead_ man, a man she still loved in many ways—and they lived with her mother.  
  
She wasn’t dense enough to think that Steve would resent her for that—others might have, in the same circumstance—because he was very open-minded and had kindness unending, but Steve almost seemed to try to keep himself away from that possibility.  
  
She knew he’d lost a lot, because he had told her about some of it—had admitted he’d been in love before, had admitted it still stung, but their discussion this morning…  
  
She groaned quietly. “Get a grip,” she breathed, quietly. “You’re being silly.”  
  
“The only time you’re silly is when you’re playing with Belle,” Steve said, from somewhere behind her.  
  
She nearly leaped a full foot off the floor.  
  
Shaking, just a little, she stared down at the empty sink. She hadn’t said anything truly... _telling_ out loud, but she knew that Steve was a thinker, and so much smarter than people might think. So how could she respond to that?  
  
“What do you think you’re being silly about?”  
  
She bit her lip softly, wondering if she should risk it.  
  
But she had already had her heart broken, and really, Steve could die just like…  
  
“It’s nothing,” she murmured.  
  
Steve thought about that for a moment, and he thought about what her mother had said, too. He wondered if he should pry—he wondered if it was worth it, when they would all just get hurt. It would hurt her, and it would cause him a great deal of pain, too—and worst of all, it would hurt Belle.  
  
He wondered if they could ever work it out—if she could deal with his life, if she could handle him being gone all the time, not knowing if he was okay, if she could handle being with someone else in the military (well, worse than the military, in some ways), if it was worth the risk. He wondered if _he_ could juggle the two lives separately—if he could be a hero and a symbol and fight the bullies of the world, but come back to her at the end of a mission and just be _Steve_ , not _Captain America_. He wondered if that would be as much of a relief as he felt it would.  
  
There was no buzzing phone to interrupt now, no risk of a little girl walking in, and no chance that her mother would be spying on them.  
  
He stared at her back, each lost in the stretching silence of thought.  
  
“Steve?”  
  
His name was barely a breath on her lips, yet it almost broke his heart. There were too many notes in the little word to identify, too many emotions, too much to take it all in without recognizing what he _needed_ to do in response. He went to her, and touching her shoulder, he pulled her softly, not hard enough to force her to move, but enough to encourage her to turn toward him.  
  
She did, and he wrapped her in his arms, pulling her in to his chest, nuzzling in to her hair because he couldn't help it.  
  
She leaned in to him almost heavily, letting herself, just for that moment, burrow in to his chest, and she felt him tighten his arms on her, and it felt _perfect_. He was strong—there was no doubting that, feeling the muscles on him flexing with every movement—but he was so utterly gentle, as though afraid he’d break her.  
  
She wrapped her arms around his middle in return, breathing in the scent of him—he didn’t wear anything heavy, and she could barely smell his soap, but it was _soothing.  
  
_ There was something comforting about his strength, and perhaps even more about his gentility.  
  
He held her to him, and he let out a long, heavy breath from his chest, knowing that this was a line—a line he’d crossed and now he couldn’t take it back, because feeling her pressed in to him, being able to hold her in his arms and to know what it felt like to have her cuddled in to him…  
  
He _wanted_ this. He wanted it more than anything, when everything else had been taken away from him.  
  
He held her just a little tighter, afraid to hurt her, but unwilling to truly let her go—afraid to let her get away for fear he couldn’t pull her back.  
  
Now he didn’t just wonder if they could make this work—he hoped they could, he hoped she would _try_ because it felt like giving up too much not to try to have this life with her.  
  
“(Name), I know I shouldn’t—I know we shouldn’t, but you must know that I care about you, don’t you?” The question was whispered against her hair, too quiet for anyone else to hear, even though the house was empty but for them.  
  
He could practically _hear_ her pausing to think about that. He gave her the time, and she spoke after a long moment, “...So...you... _might_ have kissed me if my alarm hadn’t gone off…?”  
  
The question was hesitant.  
  
Steve chuckled, but she felt his whole body shake with the sound, heard it rumble in his chest. “Well, no,” he said, gently, “I was going to ask if I could, but I uh…”  
  
It was her turn to laugh, and she shook gently in his grasp, finally lifting up to look at him, surprised, but delighted. “Of course you wouldn’t just kiss me. I should’ve known better,” she said, seeming happy about that. She paused before she moved, but she lifted her hand, touching his cheek softly. “I don’t know about other girls, but that, the permission thing? Pretty sure that’s as good as the kiss itself, to me,” she murmured.  
  
Though he felt the blush flood in to his cheeks with all the power of a tsunami, he found himself smiling. “Is that so?” She hummed her assent, and he dipped his head just a little toward her, “Then, can I kiss you?”  
  
It was her turn to blush, but she smiled. “So long as you promise it won’t be the last time...definitely,” she agreed.  
  
Steve took that in happily, and though he dipped toward her, he paused one more time, meeting her eyes, before he leaned in.  
  
Maybe it was that final pause, making sure he met her eyes, making sure she wasn’t pulling away…  
  
Or maybe it was the soft touch of his lips, smooth and soft and as gentle as his strength…  
  
Or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t press too far until she truly responded to him…  
  
She felt a tingle fly down her spine.  
  
He moved slow, but he leaned in to the kiss, cupping her jaw and softly pulling her up in to him, his arm drawing her in to his strength, helping hold up her weight when she went on her toes to meet his kiss.  
  
She didn’t open her eyes even when he pulled away.  
  
“Wow.”  
  
Steve grinned. “At least I know you liked that,” he said, softly, teasing, but he didn’t let her go—he kept her secure in his arms, gentle, but seeming unwilling to let her get too far away.  
  
She hummed, “Considering it’s been a _long_ time since a kiss had given me tingles...yeah, I liked that.” She was grinning at him, and lifted, softly kissing him again, lingering against his lips for a moment. “Gotta admit, the coffee taste is kinda nice,” she murmured, smiling.  
  
He grinned at her, surprised, but pleased, and leaned in for another kiss, but then, he pulled back just a little. “I think we might need to talk, though,” he said, softly. “Especially while we have the time to ourselves.”  
  
She looked, just for a moment, like a deer in the headlights. She froze up and he felt her tense in his arms, and he frowned slightly. “I’m sorry, I—”  
  
She shook her head, a little color coming back to her face, and she took a breath. “No, Steve, I mean...I mean, you’re right, it’s just…”  
  
“I know this is hard for you,” he said, softly. “Even if...I mean, I’m guessing it’s occurred to you before today, even if...we didn’t date, I’m sure it’s come to mind what will happen when I have to fight again,” he murmured. “If not to you, I know you must’ve thought of Belle.”  
  
She stared at his chest for a long moment. “...For such a bulky guy, you’ve got a big brain,” she murmured, not quite resentful, but there was a definite note of almost-regret in the tone. “I _know_ you’re smart and it still throws me, sometimes, how much…” She bit her lip, and then took a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. “Right. Talking,” she said, and she met his eyes, and Steve didn’t miss the slight fear in them.  
  
He knew why.  
  
“Can, uh...can we sit for this? I get a bit wobbly-legged as it is when I think of the long-term of anything, but the kiss kind of tops it off—you might have to hold me up if you don’t get me a chair,” she teased, trying to calm herself with some humor.  
  
Steve thought for a long moment, and she knew that—she could practically see the cogs turning in those pretty blue eyes of his.  
  
He finally smiled at her, and, before she could think to protest, he bent down and swept her in to the cradle of his arms, earning a startled shriek out of her mouth, though that dissolved in to laughter as he cuddled her to his chest.  
  
She wrapped her arms around his neck with a smile, “You know, _Belle_ is getting heavy to me, and you can just pick me up like I’m nothing. That’s crazy. You know that, right?”  
  
He grinned at her impishly, “I _could_ put you down, if you insisted, but if I’m going to make you faint with a kiss, I may as well had the decency to carry you to a safe spot.”  
  
She was grateful for his playfulness, because it made it just a little easier to talk herself down. This was just a _talk_ , even if that kiss had been irrefutably perfect. “I didn’t _faint_ ,” she declared, throwing in a little _too_ much theatrics, to make sure he knew she wasn’t upset. “That was just a great kiss,” she insisted, teasing him.  
  
He laughed, and it felt good to know that she could make him laugh, it felt good to feel his chest shake and to see that smile on his face, after all the burden she knew he carried, after all he’d endured. If that was the only thing she could do for him, if that was the only thing she was good for, her life was worth it—because no one should carry the burden he carried. No one should endure so much. “Noted. I’ll make sure there’s something soft nearby next time I kiss you,” he returned, squeezing her in to his chest, though he never caused her any pain.  
  
She scowled at him mildly, but then he gently settled her down on to the couch, and then took a seat next to her, not too close, but he sat nearer than he had been before that morning.  
  
She happily took in his warmth.  
  
He took a breath, but turned toward her and tipped her head up toward him gently. “I know this won’t be easy for you, so...if I say anything wrong, if I hit something sensitive...will you tell me, please?” He asked the question with a lot more gentleness than she expected him to have, and his voice was very soft. “Even though it’s a talk we need to have, I know, that doesn’t mean we have to dig too deep.”  
  
She let out a little breath at that, but reached up to hold his wrist gently. “It’s going to hurt, anyway, Steve...and that’s not you, it’s just...I mean, I’ll admit it—I lost him, and it hurt, and I’m scared of feeling that again...and I _know_ what you do regularly is even scarier than what he did,” she murmured, taking a breath. “And it still hurts...but I care a lot for you. As much as I know I shouldn’t...I gotta admit, I think any woman would have a hard time not falling for you.”  
  
He grinned at her, a little sheepish, though the blush that flushed his cheeks made it worse. “They never had a problem ignoring me before,” he reminded her, recalling the conversation they’d had earlier that morning.  
  
“Well, people can be shallow,” she said, at first, but she was smiling. “I’ll admit it—you’re the pinnacle of attractiveness in a lot of ways, but uh...I was talking more about your personality,” she said, and she was blushing, too. “They were stupid not to get to know you, and I can say that honestly. You’re a wonderful person, Steve—I mean, disregarding the age gap here, I’d be lucky to find a guy like you in my age range. Most men now are...much less caring, less thoughtful, less kind. You’re gentle, and sweet, and that’s a lot,” she assured. “Women flirt with the bad boy—but most of us won’t take him home, Steve. I’ve got a kid, and we’re living with my mother—I want someone reliable, and more importantly, someone I can trust with Belle. My mother’s approval is a bonus, too, and I _know_ that she likes you,” she added.  
  
Steve was definitely blushing by that point, but he shook his head. “I don’t know that I’m reliable,” he argued, though he was flattered—and humbled—by her words.  
  
“Well, we’ll find that out when we talk, hm?” The question was gentle, and she took his hands with hers. “‘Cuz I gotta say, if we go down this road, I don't want to start it today and have you out the door to fight aliens tomorrow and call it over,” she said. “So...can I sort of...lay this out, while I’m feeling brave?”  
  
Steve was surprised—and perhaps a little nervous—at her words. She’d been the one he was worried about being shaky, even though this rattled his nerves, too. He’d lost, too—in a way, he’d also just buried the one he loved, though he’d lost her in many ways before that. But he took in a breath, knowing he’d already made up his mind.  
  
He’d known, the moment he held her in his arms.  
  
And maybe he’d known when he’d been ready to kiss her that morning.  
  
Or maybe it was the moment that he’d started skipping his morning run when she got up early on the weekends _just_ so he could spend the morning with her.  
  
“Yeah. Might be best for both of us,” he agreed.  
  
She took a slow, deep breath. “I know...I know—and I’m dreading it—I know that you’ll have to leave one day,” she said, softly. “I know you're on the run, sort of, but...I know when you’re needed, you’re going to go back out there—I know that’s who you are, that’s just the kind of person you are. You’ll protect people...and whether or not we’re in a relationship, you would go to protect us, too,” she said. “But when you do...when you do, I don’t want you to leave without telling us—I want you to talk to me, and Belle, at least, I want you to say goodbye,” she said, and he saw the tears welling at the corners of her eyes. “But the minute the fighting is over...the minute you’re safe, the minute you can...call us? I want you coming home after, but...if you can’t come home, or even before you do, call us, and let us know you’re okay,” she said, softly. “I don’t want us to be a burden on you—something you feel obligated to carry around—but if this is going to be a relationship...I need to know you’re okay, and I need you to be able to come home, even if it’s three in the morning and you’re covered in blood.” She paused, and then squeezed his hands. “I want you to know you can come here, no matter what’s happened or what you look like, and this is home—no pause, no worries, no hesitance—I want you to come here and I want you to know this is home,” she said.  
  
Steve felt such a staggering amount of emotion overcome him at that suggestion—at that _idea_ —that he wasn’t surprised when tears sprung to the corners of his eyes. He didn’t hide them, though they didn’t fall, before he took a breath to speak, to sort his thoughts. He gave himself a moment before he truly tried to speak. “You know...you know that I can’t ever promise you I’ll come back, right?” The question was soft, and he didn’t mean to poke at the hardest spot he could right away, but he knew he had to sort this part of it _now._ “You know I can’t predict how a fight is going to go, even if I have the others with me...right?”  
  
She let out a quiet gasp and he knew he’d asked the wrong question, but he knew he _had_ to ask it.  
  
She grabbed his hand, and her grip was much, much stronger than he expected of someone so tiny.  
  
“I know that,” she said, and she was breathing a little hard, trying to keep calm, trying to keep it together—the words had come out almost viciously. “I know,” she said, after a deep breath, just a little softer. “That’s why...that’s why, when you do have to go...I need you to tell us,” she murmured it, and there were tears in her eyes again. “I need you to say goodbye, because that might be the only thing we get.”  
  
Steve hesitated before he moved, but he finally let emotion win over his brain—he scooped her off the couch and pulled her in to his lap, holding her in his arms, pulling her close and he felt her start to cry on his chest. “I know,” he said, soothingly. “I know.” She was shaking, and he didn’t speak, didn’t make her continue, didn’t force anything—he merely held her, stroking her back softly, letting her calm herself down. He knew well that, by now, she had learned to do that by herself, but this was a small offer—if he had it his way, she would never have to do this by herself again. When she began to calm down, when her breathing slowed and her body relaxed against him, he softly kissed the top of her head. “I promise I’ll tell you—and I promise I’ll fight my hardest to come home,” he said, softly, keeping his voice low. “I don’t think I’d be able to die if I thought I’d put you through that again.”  
  
She let out a laugh that was almost a sob, and then softly thumped him on the shoulder, even though she knew it wouldn’t hurt him. “Oh, you might die—but I’ll reach in to the afterlife and drag you back, buddy,” she said, trying to tease him. Still, she took a few deep breaths, and when he pulled her a little closer, she leaned her forehead against his collar. “You...you _will_ do your best to come home, won’t you, Steve? I mean...and forgive me, please, but...I know how much you’ve lost, I know...I know what you said, when we first met...that...well, you implied in a lot of ways that you wished you hadn’t survived,” she said, softly, and she took another, slow, shaking breath. “I know this can’t be easy, but...about all that...have you changed your mind? Would you come home, for us?”  
  
Steve was silent for a long time, and she let him be—she knew they were both hitting hard, but she also knew they had to, because this was the only time they had—this was the only privacy they were guaranteed to get, with her daughter and mother, this was the best opportunity to get it all out, to get the worst of it over with. He waited, and finally, he let go of her with one arm, and he tipped her chin up toward him, just so he could meet her eyes. “(Name), I won’t lie to you—a part of me will always wish I had gone down in that plane for real,” he said, softly, but he kept her gaze. “But I’m here now—and I’ve always been a fighter. So I’m gonna fight for this—I’ll fight for you, and Belle...I’ll fight for a life with you,” he promised, keeping the words even, but meaningful. “It’s hard, getting used to things now, adapting to this life...but living with you, if I could have a life, an _ordinary_ life, this is what I want,” he said. “And I will leave—I know that day will come, and I dread it, because I’ve been taking this in like I can’t have it...because I never thought I could,” he offered. “But you want me here—you want me to come back, so I will.” He took a moment, letting her roll that over in her head, letting her think. “I want to come back to you. So I’ll fight tooth and nail to come home. I promise.”  
  
She waited, waited and watched him, unblinking, before she let out a sharp exhale, and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him just a little too tightly, and then she kissed him, holding him as tightly as his arms were now holding her. She took a breath, keeping her eyes closed, taking in the feeling of him, memorizing the warmth of him, the strength she was learning to lean on. She finally opened her eyes to meet his, and she let out a little breath, smiling at him, despite the little tears that had formed in the corner of her eyes. She laced her fingers through his hair and kissed him again, once, softly. “Thank you,” she said, first, and then she kissed him again, relishing the fact that he let her, that he kissed her every time she leaned in, that he let her cling to him as hard as she could. She smiled at him just a little more, despite the fear in her, and she nodded. “Welcome home—you’re not a guest. You’re a resident.” She grinned at him, now.  
  
He laughed, and surprising her, he threaded her hair through his fingers, pulling her in to kiss him, slow and thorough, and despite his supposed inexperience, her toes curled just a little. “Am I?” The words were just a little quieter, but not in the way they had spoken before—not quite fearful, but a little distracted, as he kissed her again, and her toes curled a little more, her body pressing a little tighter to his. “Was there anything else we needed to discuss?”  
  
A part of her was spinning from his kisses and she had to pause to think. “Not if you kiss me like that,” she murmured against his lips, and she _felt_ the heat flush in to his cheeks, felt him let her go just a little bit. She laughed. “You know, it’s sweet that you’re shy,” she said, softly, recovering a little, her head clearing. “That might actually be a point we need to cover _before_ Belle comes back.”  
  
It was Steve’s turn to feel his stomach do a back-flip. “What?”  
  
She laughed softly. “I’m not talking about kids—I think that might be a bit later in the relationship,” she said, trying to soothe him. “But you and I haven’t been...well, Belle knows how ‘grownups’ act when they’re together like parents, and we haven’t acted like that,” she said, softly. “But despite that fluster you have with the physical part of this, I _know_ she’ll notice the difference even if it’s just us being closer,” she said.  
  
Most of the tension fell out of Steve’s shoulders at that, and he let her back down—he’d pulled her up against him to kiss her, but he let her back in to his lap, now, though he was _definitely_ just a little...flustered by the way she so easily reacted to him. “What do you want to tell her? I know this is going to be a...well, it’s going to be a work in progress, for both of us, getting used to it, but...”  
  
Surprisingly, she smiled at him quite brightly, seeming happy about it. “Well, I’ve made it a point to be honest with her about most things—the only thing I hold back is...well, I hold that back because it’s hard for _me,_ even though I think she would do her best to understand,” she admitted. “So I think—if it’s alright with you—we should just tell her that we care a lot about each other,” she offered. “We don’t know how this will go—and yeah, I think it’s going to be a process, figuring out how this will work—so I think we should just be honest about it.”  
  
He rolled that around in his head for a moment, and then nodded. “I think that’s a good plan,” he said, and then, he began to smile. “Since Belle has the morning with your mother...will you let me take you on a real date?” The question was asked with a grin, and he held on to her, now, feeling a lot of the morning’s tension slipping away—knowing that they both were aware that it was going to be slow going was a comfort to him. “Maybe a walk in the park and lunch?”  
  
She was surprised, and then delighted, and she laughed. “Really?” When he nodded, she laughed. “Now _that_ sounds like a perfect first date,” she agreed, and she leaned in, kissing him softly. “That sounds amazing. Let’s do it.”  
  
(Name) and Steve each got ready and, though (Name) offered to drive, Steve told her he wanted to take her somewhere new. They drove for more than an hour and found a park, and he wrapped his arm around her as they walked, talking quietly, about everything and nothing—touching lighter subjects than the early morning had brought, but learning more than either had dared before they had taken the plunge.  
  
He took her to a cute place for lunch and bought her dessert, though she had insisted he didn’t need to—and she lost that argument with a smile on her face.  
  
When they got a call from her mother—stating that they’d just left the movie and were heading home, (Name) had admitted they were out by themselves, and her mother had told them to take their time.  
  
Steve, at length, had asked her for one final thing before they headed home.  
  
He wanted to take her back to the park.  
  
She was confused, but she agreed to go, and when they arrived, he pulled a notebook from the leather jacket he wore.  
  
He grinned at her, though the expression had a sadness to it. “I had a...” He paused for a breath. “I had a...photo, of Peggy, during the war,” he said, softly. “And I want one of you...but I want to ask you a favor,” he said, softly, and he felt her cupping his cheek. “I want to draw you—out here, today.”  
  
She didn’t need to ask him why.  
  
She didn’t begrudge him the picture he’d had of Peggy—and even if he still had it, she wouldn’t hold it against him. She had photos of Belle’s father.  
  
So she nodded, and then stood on her toes to kiss him softly. “Where do you want me?”  
  
Steve drew her on a park bench in the bright colors of autumn, detailing her face as she smiled at him, kissing her softly sometimes, memorizing her here, and now.  
  
He took her home and picked up Belle when she ran to meet them, laughing when the little one wrapped her arms around his neck, playing with her while (Name) went to speak to her mother.  
  
At last, (Name) called Belle to meet her, and Steve carried her in to the living room with ease, and Steve put her down as gently as he had handled (Name) that day.  
  
They spoke to her quietly, explaining exactly what (Name) had suggested before—that she and Steve cared for each other, a lot, and that, from then on, he was going to live with them, maybe “forever,” since that was the easiest way to put it.  
  
Belle thought hard about that and watched Steve with curious, but very intelligent eyes. “You mean he’s gonna be here even if he has to fight monsters?”  
  
Steve’s heart jumped at that, and even (Name) seemed surprised. “What makes you think he’ll have to fight monsters, honey?”  
  
Belle was still enough of a child to blurt out her answer with the confidence that could only come from being young. “Unca’ J said he looked like Captain America and showed me a video! Steve was fighting these ugly guys in a city!” Belle didn’t see the color draining out of her mother’s face, didn’t see the horror rising in her eyes. “There were a bunch of police there, and this red-headed woman, and a big green guy!”  
  
Steve grabbed (Name) before the woman could hit the floor—she was too shocked to hold herself up, and Steve had no doubt that she’d seen the same footage as her daughter—and had hoped the little girl would never have seen it. He felt her begin shaking, felt the panic and terror come over her and he turned her toward him, turned her up to meet his eyes, “(Name), (Name), it’s alright,” he said, stern, but soft. “It’s okay.” He kept her eyes on him, forced her to look at him. “Belle doesn’t know,” he said, softly. “It’s okay.” He gripped her arm, just a little tighter than he knew he should. “Do you feel that, (Name)? You’re both safe—and I am, too. You’re okay.”  
  
The shock of pain that rattled up her arm was enough to break through some of the panic, and she came out of it to feel her chest hurting, feel her head spinning, and she grabbed his shirt, hard, “Steve?”  
  
“It’s okay, (Name),” he said, softly, but he didn’t loosen his grip yet. “But I need you to answer me. Do you feel this?” He squeezed just a little harder, and then let go. “Do you know where you are?”  
  
The jolt of pain was harder this time, and she gasped, “Ow!” She panted, just a moment, and then blinked at him. “I...I’m home,” she said, the words just a little quiet, but solid enough. “I’m home,” she murmured, and then looked down at his hand. “You can...ease up,” she said, quietly.  
  
He did so immediately, but he tipped her chin up to him. “Are you okay?” The question was soft, and despite Belle’s now-worried look, he kept his focus on (Name). She’d been panicking—had been on the edge of a full panic attack, and he needed her to come down, he needed to help her. He could attend Belle in a moment, knew that (Name)’s mother could look after her. “I need you here, (Name). If you need something, I’ll help.”  
  
She was already taking deep breaths, already focusing her efforts on calming down, already steadying herself, but she kept her eyes on Steve. “I’m okay,” she said, softly. “I just...”  
  
“I know,” he said, gently, and he lifted her a little bit, set her back on her own feet. “Are your legs okay? Do you need to sit?”  
  
She took a slow, deep breath, feeling him holding her, finding the pressure of his hands and the worry on his face comforting. “I think I should sit,” she admitted, and Steve helped her to the couch.  
  
(Name)’s mother swept in with a glass of water.  
  
Belle was standing in the same place Steve had put her down, looking worried—and afraid.  
  
(Name) took a big gulp of the water before she turned to Belle, trying to keep herself calm.  
  
“It’s okay, honey,” she said, first, and she felt Steve’s arm curl around her shoulders tightly. “Come over here. It’s alright.”  
  
Belle hesitated, but did as her mother asked, and (Name) leaned down to pick her up and pull her in to her lap. “You said James showed you that video?” The question was level, but Steve still held her a little tighter.  
  
“Was I not supposed to see it, Mommy?”  
  
(Name) knew that Belle had no clue how awful that event was in her mother’s mind—how much the reminder caused her to ache and panic, how scary it was—now doubly-so, because she knew that, though she’d lost someone in the battle, Steve had been just as at risk.  
  
She took a deep, calming breath. “It’s just...something I wish you didn’t have to see,” she said, carefully, keeping her voice level. “There are a lot of bad things in the world and I wish you never had to see war.” She tried to keep that her primary thought, but her mind turned to death—and to the knowledge that Steve had faced that sort of danger many times before.  
  
“War? You mean like they talk about on TV?” Belle, at least, though concerned for her mother, was yet young enough not to read too much of (Name)’s thoughts on her face.  
  
“Well, there’s been a lot of war in the past,” she said, carefully, “and it happens when people disagree on things.”  
  
“But you and I disagree on how much dessert I get and there’s no war over that,” Belle argued.  
  
Steve bit his lip, and (Name) smiled, “Well, no, honey,” she said, and she took a breath. “But some people...sometimes, honey, talking doesn’t work, because some people won’t listen—some people just believe that their way is right, and...people fight about things.” She let out a soft sigh and shook her head. “I don’t like war, and I wish wars didn’t happen...but I can’t stop them, and when people fight, it’s dangerous.” She paused, and she took a deeper breath. “That fight you saw with Steve...people got hurt,” she said, as carefully as she could. “And that’s what happens in war.” She paused again, and then pulled Belle to her tighter. “Mommy just doesn’t want you to see how bad things can get.”  
  
Belle knew something was wrong, of course—even if she didn’t know the reason, Belle was smart and could see that something was definitely wrong with her mother, that something more than what she was talking about was going on. But instead, she nodded, and then looked at Steve. “Steve, will you stay here even if those monsters come back?”  
  
Steve looked at (Name), looked at her panic and her fear and her worry, and he took a deep breath. “Well, I might have to go and fight the monsters,” he said, carefully, “but as soon as I can, I’ll be back,” he said.  
  
Belle waited for a moment, looking between Steve, and her mother. “But Mommy doesn’t like fighting. Why would you leave to fight?”  
  
Steve paused for a long time, trying to sort out his thoughts, trying to keep them safe—safe enough to tell a child who was still young enough not to know the truth about war, who thought disagreements about dessert might cause war. He looked at (Name), and then took a breath. “Because I want to protect you, and your mommy and grandma,” he said, softly, gently. “Because I don’t ever want any monsters to have a chance to hurt you guys, so to keep you safe, I’d fight them.” He paused, and he reached out and squeezed her hand. “I would fight them to make sure you guys never had to see war except on TV,” he explained.  
  
When had talked (Name) down, and (Name) had talked Belle down, (Name)’s mother made dinner with Belle’s help, and Steve sat on the couch, with (Name) wrapped in one of his arms, holding her hand.  
  
She leaned on him so heavily he wondered if she should just go ahead to bed—he knew she was exhausted.  
  
She held on to him tightly, and leaned her head on his shoulder, fighting down the exhaustion that had surfaced with her panic. “Hey, Steve?”  
  
The words were so soft he was glad she was close to him—he almost missed them. “Hmm?”  
  
“Ten out of ten. Preventing a full panic attack and talking me down and _then_ talking to Belle? Perfect score,” she murmured, and he laughed softly, bending his head to kiss the top of hers. “Really, though...thank you,” she murmured, and she leaned in to him, curling her legs beneath her, leaning in to him a little more. “Even Mom has trouble with my panic...though she doesn’t go the pain route.”  
  
He frowned and tipped her head up toward him. “I’m sorry. It was the only thing I had at that time, if I could’ve—”  
  
“Nope. Pain works,” she said, softly, and she leaned in to kiss him. “Besides, you didn’t really hurt me—I know you could’ve,” she added, and she settled back in to him. “I would’ve outright lost it if you hadn’t acted so fast,” she murmured.  
  
He shook his head, but pulled her a little closer, adjusting her, curling his arm around her securely. “We would’ve handled that, too,” he promised, and he kissed the top of her head again. “I’m in it for keeps—I’ve never been good at doing anything halfway,” he said.  
  
She laughed, but snuggled in to him, and let out a yawn. “I appreciate that,” she said, but then, she sighed. “Can I ask a favor, Steve?”  
  
He hummed at her softly, reaching up to stroke her hair, knowing she must have been beyond exhausted. “Sure.”  
  
She let out a heavy sigh, falling a little limp on him, but he heard her hesitating. “I uh...you’re free to tell me ‘no,’ but uh...would you...would you sleep with me tonight?” The words were quiet. “I don’t mean anything by it—I just...I uh...I...I know I’m gonna have nightmares, and...and it’d be nice not to...not to be alone,” she said, quietly. “You don’t have to. I’ll ask Mom, if you won’t, because I won’t put Belle in that situation, but uh...”  
  
Steve was surprised...and humbled. He tipped her head up toward him, and he saw how tired she was, and he could see the fear lingering in her eyes. He leaned in to kiss her, once, softly. “Yeah. Is there anything I need to know before?”  
  
She relaxed again, but nodded. “If I...if you can tell I’m having a nightmare, wake me up,” she said, softly. “I don’t mind if you hold me, that’s fine, I just...don’t let me sleep through a nightmare if you know I’m having it,” she said, and she took a breath. “I might whimper or cry in my sleep, but I don’t think I scream or thrash.”  
  
“Okay.” Steve nodded, and he kissed her softly once more. “I’ll do my best.”  
  
She thanked him, and she didn’t eat much—she was too tired.  
  
She got ready for bed swiftly, and Steve waited until he knew Belle was down for the night before he went in to (Name)’s room. She was sitting on the bed, looking at the ring on her right hand. Steve sat beside her and curled his arm around her. “Are you okay?”  
  
She laughed, but it was nervous. “As okay as I can be,” she murmured, staring at her hand. “James is getting a mouthful, first of all,” she said, and there was a little anger there, but it subsided when she continued. “Thank you, for...well, for everything, but um...I know this probably isn’t something you figured on doing, yet...”  
  
He chuckled, and she was so surprised by the sound that she looked at him. He was smiling. “No...but if I’m going to protect you by fighting monsters, I might as well help you fight the ones in your head,” he offered.  
  
Surprised, it took her a moment to process that, before she grinned, and she leaned in to kiss him, lingering against his lips, taking him in. “Mm. Now _that_ is a hell of a way to put it,” she said, and she was smiling. “I like it.”  
  
Steve grinned at her, and he kissed her in return, drawing her in to him, delighted. “Well, I told you—I don’t do things halfway. I’m in it for keeps, as long as you want me,” he promised, and he pulled her up to kiss her again, softly, briefly. “So. Here I am.”  
  
“Mm.” She hummed softly, and she nodded. “Thank you, Steve,” she murmured, and she gave him another little kiss, but then she sighed. “Right. Best not to fall asleep sitting up, so...I think I better curl up before I pass out on you,” she said. “Which side do you prefer?”  
  
He grinned at her, “I’ll take whichever side you don’t—it doesn’t matter to me,” he said.  
  
Though skeptical, she was too tired to argue the point, and she climbed in to her usual side of the bed, curling up and getting comfortable. Steve climbed in after her, and, surprising her immensely, he gently wrapped around her. “If you don’t give any more indication than whimpers or crying...I’d rather be close,” he said, softly. “Is this okay?”  
  
Despite her surprise, she adjusted a little, and then relaxed. “Yeah,” she agreed, and then snuggled in to her pillow. “Definitely.”  
  
Steve pressed a kiss against the back of her head, and he waited until she was asleep before he let himself relax.  
  
He knew well that this wouldn’t be easy—that they both had their own baggage and their own damage—but feeling her in his arms, hearing her breathe, having her relying on him...he was certain nothing could be better.  
  
He would never begrudge her the trauma he knew she’d suffered, and he would never hold it against her if, years down the line, she still wore the ring she had on her right hand.  
  
He knew what it was like.  
  
He still had Peggy’s photo everywhere he went, safe, tucked somewhere he never looked, but he knew it was there.  
  
He would carry her with him, because that was the life he’d lost.  
  
But (Name)…  
  
(Name) and Belle…  
  
Well, this was his life.  
  
And he would fight for it.  
  
This was his home.  
  
_She_ was home, to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it was kind of...well, there wasn't any action, but I'm sticking to the idea that the reader offered him a place _away_ from the supernatural, so I wanted to give him some happiness here.
> 
> Also, the version of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" she's humming is by Pentatonix. It's _so **much**_ fun!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Do let me know if you want to see a third piece of it, yes?


End file.
